


Dudley Dursley and the Eye of the Basilisk

by mannelig



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mannelig/pseuds/mannelig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last year, Dudley Dursley, formerly a father in his late thirties, woke up as an eleven year old wizard. After a year of panic attacks and near-death experiences, he'd been looking forward to a nice, calm summer followed by a nice, calm year at Hogwarts. Instead, he got a house elf stalking his cousin, a mysterious journal, a rumor about an eyeball, and a haunted toilet.</p>
<p>He is starting to think that time travel is overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homes and House Elves

**CHAPTER ONE**

  
  
    The bell above the shop door jingled as a boy pushed it open and stepped out into the warm July afternoon. His cousin stepped up beside him, and they squinted out at the stifling hot city of London. They had the same nose, and were dressed in similar clothing, but there the resemblance ended. One was tall, blond, and overweight, though he wasn’t nearly the size he’d been the year before. His companion was short, dark-haired, and while skinny, was also doing better than he had. Their names were Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley, and they were wizards.  
  
    They shuffled away from the door, already dabbing sweat from their faces with their sleeves, and Harry drew two popsicles from his grocery bag. One was passed to Dudley, who adjusted his grip on his bag and took it gratefully. “That’s everything, then?” he asked, voice a little muffled as he opened the wrapping with his teeth.  
  
    “Should be,” said Harry, sounding not in the least bit inclined to hunt through his pockets for the shopping list. He paused momentarily to unwrap his popsicle, then caught up to his cousin. “It’s not like we can’t go back later if we forgot something. Want to try writing again while we watch Merlin?”  
  
    “Sure,” said Dudley, a little half-heartedly.  
  
    Merlin was, in theory, a cat. It belonged to their neighbor, Giulia Parander, who was majoring in Arithmancy at the London Institute of Wizardry. Dudley and Harry had taken up pet-sitting for her during her long class days for a bit of pocket money, and spent half their time coming up with theories about Merlin’s heritage. It was, at least, the correct size for a cat, polka-dotted fur aside.  
  
    The previous year, the elder Dursleys had separated, and Petunia had secured an apartment in London. What she hadn’t mentioned to her son and nephew was the fact that the complex was owned by a witch, and the rest of the tenants were squibs, students at the Institute, and what seemed to be every dotty auntie in Wizarding Britain. As it turned out, the landlady, Ms. Blomgren, was in Molly Weasley’s knitting circle, and was more than happy to take them on at her recommendation. It was a small complex, quietly tucked in between a sandwich shop and a parking garage, and Ms. Blomgren kept a vegetable garden in the back that was much larger than it had any right to be. To two boys freshly initiated into the world of magic, it was perfection.  
  
    As they rounded the corner, they nearly ran right into Giulia. She was short, barely taller than Harry, and she had the pointy features of someone with watered-down goblin blood in their veins. Her pale hair was cut in a bob, but today it was up in a weak bun, and the corners of her small eyes crinkled as she recognized them. “Hi!” she said brightly, jabbing a hairpin into her hair so violently that Dudley feared for her skull. “I’ve already fed Merlin, so he shouldn’t be much trouble today! Sorry, but I have to run!” She pressed a packet of ice mice into Harry’s hand and ruffled their hair before darting away down the street. The boys watched her go, feeling rather as if they’d been accosted by a cheerful storm, before heading up to their apartment to drop off the groceries.  
  
    Petunia wasn’t home yet, and wouldn’t be for a while - she worked as a secretary, and it was nearly an hour’s commute by bus. The boys unpacked the groceries, finished off their popsicles, then ducked into the room they shared to collect their things. It was strange, sharing a bedroom. The tiny apartment only had two bedrooms which were barely closets, and it had been a trial finding space for the trunks and owls when they’d arrived. As Harry petted Hedwig, Dudley rifled through his blanket until he found the Potions magazine he’d fallen asleep reading the night before, and after collecting the miscellaneous sweets and bits of paper they required, they set off upstairs to Giulia’s apartment.  
  
    “Good afternoon!” called Ms. Alwort, Giulia’s neighbor, as they reached her door. A large tabby cat wound around her ankles and trotted lazily toward them.  
  
    “Hullo, Ms. Alwort,” said Harry politely, and stooped to pet the cat as Dudley searched his pockets for the spare key.  
  
    “Merlin’s in a mood today,” the elderly witch warned them. “He fair tore the curtains up, or so it sounded earlier.”  
  
    “Thank you for the warning,” Dudley said, opening the door, and the cousins slipped into the stuffy apartment.  
  
    Harry wandered over to the windows and opened them wide, then went in search of Merlin as Dudley settled on the couch and spread the magazine and writing materials on the coffee table.  
  
    The only downside to their summer so far had been the lack of communication from their friends. All their letters had returned unopened, and none of the phonecalls to Hermione and Hannah went through. At first it hadn’t bothered them too much - after all, their friends probably had plans for the summer, and maybe it was just too far for the owls. But as the weeks stretched on, they had started to worry. They even borrowed Ms. Blomgren’s fireplace to try a Floo call, and that hadn’t gone through either. Granted, it was also their first time using the Floo network, and they’d only just avoided singing their eyebrows off.  
  
    Harry returned to the living room with Merlin stretched possessively across his shoulders, his scorpion tail wrapped lazily around the boy’s neck. “He was in the bathtub,” Harry announced, perching on the edge of the couch, and reached for a ballpoint pen.  
  
    And found himself grabbing the ear of the house elf sitting on the coffee table.  
  
  
    It was hard to say who was more surprised, Harry or the elf. They stared at each other until Harry got hold of himself and released the elf’s ear, stammering an apology. Merlin opened one beady eye and squawked warningly at the elf before jumping down from Harry’s shoulders and disappearing into the kitchen.  
  
    The house elf was not unusual for one of its kind, possessing the usual batlike ears and bulging tennis ball eyes that were so common. It wore a ratty old pillowcase, and was nervously twisting the hem in its long, bony fingers. It looked uncertainly at Harry and squeaked, “Harry Potter?”  
  
    Harry nodded hesitantly, as if he didn’t quite trust himself to speak, and the elf broke into a rapturous grin and jumped to its feet. “Oh, Dobby has wanted to meet you for so long!” he cried, bowing low. “Such an honor it is, sir!” As Harry weakly protested, the elf turned to Dudley and eyed him speculatively. “The Dursey?” he asked.  
  
    Dudley, who was reeling a little - _this_ was the legendary Dobby? - said, faintly, “Sure.”  
  
    “Sorry,” Harry interrupted, “but who are you?”  
  
    “Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house elf,” said the creature, beaming once more.  
  
    Harry looked rather desperately at Dudley, who could only stare helplessly back. “Er. Right. Erm... can we help you, Dobby?”  
  
    “Well, sir,” said the elf, wringing his hands, “Dobby has come to tell you, sir... it is difficult, sir... Dobby wonders where to begin...”  
  
    “Why don’t you sit down,” Harry suggested politely, gesturing to the armchair. To the horror of the boys, Dobby immediately burst into tears. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, or, or anything.”  
  
    “Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard- like an equal-!”  
  
    Dudley set a throw pillow on the table and gently guided the elf until he was sitting on it. “There, there,” he said awkwardly. The pillow had lace and crocheted flowers, and Dobby looked very much like an ugly little doll. Rather hysterically, Dudley thought that it was a shame there wasn’t doll clothing lying around to complete the ridiculous picture.  
  
    Eventually, Dobby calmed down, noisily blowing his nose on the edge of his pillow case, and stared adoringly at Harry with watery green eyes. “You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said Harry, sounding genuinely sympathetic.  
  
    Dobby shook his head - and then, without warning, darted across the room and began bashing his head against the bookcase, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” Giulia’s collection of tiny ceramic dogs immediately woke up from their naps and started barking in their tinkling little voices as the shelves rattled. A couple fell off, and the boys hurried over - Harry to catch the figurines, Dudley to carefully pry the elf away.  
  
    “Easy, Dobby!” Dudley cried, and finally managed to sit him safely back on the frilly throw pillow. “What was that all about?”  
  
    Harry murmured nonsense to the ceramic dogs as he replaced them, then returned to hover at Dudley’s elbow, staring at the elf in concern. “Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, a little dazedly. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family.”  
  
    “Family?” Harry echoed, then seemed to finally remember what Neville had told them about house elves. “The family you... serve?” A nod. “That doesn’t sound right, Neville said wizards are supposed to treat elves fairly. Isn’t there some way we could help?”  
  
    At that, Dobby burst into tears, wailing about how wonderful Harry was, and it took five minutes and several handkerchiefs that they desperately hoped Giulia wouldn’t miss before he would calm down again. Deciding that someone needed to get hold of the situation, Dudley said, “Sorry, Dobby, but what are you here to tell us?”  
  
    With a final sniff, the elf hunched and conspiratorially bid them closer, and the boys leaned in, curious. “Dobby heard tell,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time just weeks ago - that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”  
  
    Harry nodded, expression turning wary as Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears again. “Ah, sir,” Dobby gasped, dabbing his face with the corner of the only surviving handkerchief, “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect him, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”  
  
    A startled silence fell, broken only by the sound of a door opening and closing down the hall.  
  
    “W-what?” Harry stammered. “But - but I have to go back, term starts September first. And I’ll be surrounded by teachers there, wouldn’t it be, er, safer?”  
  
    But Dobby was shaking his head, ears slapping against his skull. “No, no, no,” he squeaked. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe! He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”  
  
     _I’m beginning to see a trend_ , thought Dudley, but said aloud,“Why?”  
  
    “There is a plot, sirs, Dobby has known it for months.” Dobby was trembling now, so violently that everything on the coffee table was rattling. “A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year.”  
  
    “Who’s plotting them? Is it You-Know-Who?” Dudley asked sharply.  
  
    The house elf shook his head, made a funny choking noise, and launched himself outwards. Fortunately Harry, having seen this coming, was prepared, and caught him in his arms. Dobby was settled back on his cushion, and once he stopped struggling, Harry said, “Okay, you can’t tell us. But Albus Dumbledore is there, and he’s the greatest wizard alive. Surely nothing will get through him.”  
  
    Dobby shook his head, trembling again. “He is powerful, sir, but there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t- powers no decent wizard should-” And before either boy could catch him, had leapt from the table and was cracking his head against the bookcase again. The ceramic dogs, who had only just ceased their barking, immediately started up again.  
  
    Harry gently pried him away and said, “Look, being at Hogwarts is the only place I really feel - right. For the first time, I have friends, friends who stand up for me, who go along with my crazy ideas-”  
  
    “Who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly.  
  
    “I expect they’ve just been - wait a minute.” Harry frowned down at the elf. “How do you-? Have you been stopping our letters?”  
  
    The elf stepped out of Harry’s reach and pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. “Dobby has them here, sir,” he said. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry, Dobby hoped... if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him, Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir.”  
  
    Harry, not listening, made a grab for the letters. Dobby jumped out of reach - but he’d forgotten about the second wizard in the room, and he found himself held carefully but firmly by Dudley. “Give us our letters, please, Dobby,” Dudley said, in a tone of voice that brooked no argument.  
  
    “Not until Harry Potter promises not to return to Hogwarts!” the elf cried, wriggling. “Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, sir!”  
  
    “No,” said Harry angrily, and darted forward. He plucked the letters from the elf’s hand, and had just got them safely inside a pocket when something seemed to explode.  
  
    “Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice!” Dobby shouted sadly above the noise. As a tiny hurricane whipped round the tiny apartment, the wizards huddled on the floor, covering their heads.  
  
    There was a loud, feline screech of protest that dragged on for ages, growing ever closer, until something heavy thumped down onto Dudley’s back and claws dug into his skin. And then, suddenly as it had come, the storm was gone. In the eery quiet, Dudley and Harry cautiously put up their heads, and gaped at what they saw. The apartment was completely wrecked, and there was no sign of Dobby anywhere. Harry made an odd choking noise.  
  
    “Er - don’t look now, but Merlin-” he said, and went a little green.  
  
    Dudley pulled the creature off his back and found that it had, somehow, been completely shaved. The beady eyes glared hatefully up at him from within numerous drooping folds of greyish-pink skin. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any uglier,” Dudley told it, and sighed before scratching under Merlin’s chin. The cat reluctantly purred, lowering its scorpion tail, and when he deemed it safe, he set it down. “He didn’t take the letters back, did he?”  
  
    Harry checked his pocket, and when he drew out the letters, was relieved to see them unharmed. He put them back, despite his burning curiosity, and stood up to survey the damage.  
  
    It was, in a word, extensive. Most of the little nick-knacks littering the shelves and tables and counters had been smashed into oblivion, and there were shreds of paper strewn everywhere. A peek into the kitchen revealed a pile of broken dishes, but they were reluctant to investigate the bedroom. Finally, they eased the door open, but mercifully, there was no damage, and the reason was soon discovered. There were warding runes smoking gently on the doorframe, a cherry red glow slowly fading from them, and the boys closed the door again with considerable relief.  
  
    “Well,” said Harry slowly, rolling up his sleeves, “let’s see what we can do to fix this up.”  
  
    They spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through the broken items and getting as much of the pieces together as they could, then throwing repairing spells. As a teacup reformed in front of him, Dudley felt, not for the first time, an intense relief that they lived in a witch-run complex. With so much spellwork going around, there was no way they could get in trouble for using magic.  
  
    Not, of course, that he was using all that much. He hadn’t managed to get the hang of _reparo_ yet, so the bulk of the spellwork was being done by Harry, who had mastered it just the other day. Dudley pushed the last little pile of shards towards him just as they heard the front door open, and cringed.  
  
    “I’m home!” Giulia called brightly, then paused. “Harry? Dudley? Is everything okay?”  
  
    She came into the kitchen with her wand drawn, and relaxed when she saw only two guilty-looking boys. “What happened?”  
  
    “Er,” said Dudley.  
  
    “Rogue house elf,” Harry said sheepishly. “I think we fixed everything?”  
  
    The newly repaired dishes had been set on the counter. Some of them were a little mismatched due to a mixup in piles when Merlin had walked through them, and Dudley could see one blue saucer was littered with bits of white and pink ceramic.  
  
    Giulia eyed the dishes herself, then grinned. “I think you got most of it. I can handle it from here - are you two okay?”  
  
    “We’re fine,” Dudley assured her as Harry let out a relieved sigh. “Um, but, Merlin-”  
  
    At that moment, the cat leapt from the top of the fridge and into Giulia’s arms, complaining loudly, and she stared at him in surprise before bursting into laughter.  
  
  
    They helped Giulia finish cleaning, despite her protests, and reluctantly accepted when she insisted on paying them anyway, then scuttled out into the hall and went downstairs. As they reached the second floor, a door opened, and a woman in her late twenties poked her head out. She was nearly six and a half feet tall, with dark skin and waist-length hair, and there were a pair of round green spectacles perched on her nose.  
  
    “Hey, is everything all right?” she called. “I just came in from the shops and saw that all the wards had flickered.”  
  
    “Oh,” said Harry, surprised. “Er - rogue house elf. Just caused a bit of a mess.”  
  
    The woman stepped fully out into the hall, and they tried very hard not to be intimidated. “Really? D’you know the elf’s name?” She didn’t seem angry, just curious, but Dudley had the sudden feeling that if they told anyone Dobby’s name, the elf would be in serious trouble.  
  
    “He didn’t say,” he said, before Harry could say anything, and didn’t dare look at his cousin. The woman raised an eyebrow, but nodded.  
  
    “As long as he didn’t hurt anyone, then,” she said, and with a cordial nod, returned to her apartment. The door shone green, briefly, and the boys shared a look before hurrying down to the first floor.  
  
    Their apartment was on the very corner of the complex, overlooking one of the flower beds, and as soon as they were inside, Dudley flung open the curtains to let the light in. Harry took out the letters and laid them out on the kitchen counter to sort them by date. “What a mess,” he said, huffing in annoyance. “What should we do?”  
  
    Dudley peered over his shoulder at the mail, humming thoughtfully. “I think we need to talk to the Weasleys. Mr. Weasley works in the Ministry, doesn’t he?”  
  
    “Yeah, but how are we going to get hold of them? Dobby could still have this place locked down.”  
  
    They stared warily at the window, as if saying the elf’s name would summon him, but when nothing happened, Dudley said slowly, “Maybe I ought to take a bus to the Leaky and use the Floo there.”  
  
    Harry brightened at the idea. “If we leave now, we can probably get there and back before your mum gets home.”  
  
    Dudley said, hesitating, “I think maybe you should stay here for now. What if he’s tracing you?”  
  
    His cousin’s face fell, and he looked for a moment like he might be stubborn - but then he looked down at the letters and frowned. “You might be right,” he admitted reluctantly. “Are you okay to go alone, though?”  
  
    “It’s not that far, only fifteen minutes,” Dudley said, trying to be reassuring. “Lucky Giulia insisted on paying us, though - I dunno if I’d have had change for the bus otherwise.”  
  
  
    About twenty minutes later, he was in an empty back room at the Leaky, sticking his head through green fire and blinking at the Weasley’s living room. “Er - excuse me?” he called hesitantly. A distant humming broke off, and there was a faint clank of dishes.  
  
    “A moment, dear!” Molly Weasley replied, and before long she turned the corner, drying her hands on her apron. When she saw him, her face lit up, then creased in worry. “Oh! Dudley, isn’t it? Are you and Harry all right, dear? We haven’t heard from you all summer.”  
  
    “We’re fine, ma’am,” said Dudley, intensely relieved. “It’s a bit of a story, though - do you have a minute?”  
  
    She listened patiently as he described that afternoon’s events - he left out Dobby’s name again, but she didn’t question it - and when he had finished, she said, “Well, there’s just one thing to do!” She smiled warmly at him, eyes merry. “Is your mother home?”  
  
    Dudley blinked in surprise and glanced at his watch. “Er, she should be soon. Why?”  
  
    “Well,” said Mrs. Weasley, “I thought it might be lovely to have you and Harry come out for the rest of the summer. We can make up for the lack of letters, and perhaps we can settle this house elf problem in the process.”  
  
    “I- that would be wonderful!” said Dudley, surprised. “I mean, I don’t want to be trouble-”  
  
    She waved her hand, smiling. “You wouldn’t be,” she promised. “Now, you may want to back up.”  
  
    He did so, and a moment later, Mrs. Weasley emerged from the fireplace, a handbag hanging from her elbow, and she beamed at him. “I thought it might be easier to visit in person, in case your area is still locked,” she explained. They left the Leaky, and just as Dudley was wondering how they were going to get there, Mrs. Weasley glanced round and raised her wand hand into the air.  
  
    A large purple monstrosity screeched to a halt in front of them, seeming to materialize out of nothing, and with a jolt of horror, Dudley realized that he was looking at the Knight Bus.


	2. The Burrow

**CHAPTER TWO**

  
  
  
    Petunia Evans - formerly Dursley - paid the bus fare and perched carefully on one of the unoccupied seats as the bus started moving. She did not slump, or lean against the window, or even close her eyes, though she was sorely tempted, because one simply Did Not show weariness in a public setting. Not even when it was one’s final bus connection of the day. _Though,_ she thought, a trace bitterly, _I’m doing quite a lot of things lately that I never imagined I would._ Still, she was acutely aware of the other bus passengers, and whether or not they actually registered her presence, she had an image to maintain. So, instead of getting comfortable, she drew a compact from her purse and examined her image in the mirror. Pursing her lips, Petunia reached up and patted her slightly windswept hair into something more orderly, then tucked the compact away again, back ramrod straight.  
  
    The past year had not been easy. It had been horrifying when the boys got their letters the previous summer. Nightmarish, even. Everything had been going so well, and then two little envelopes had destroyed all of it. She had known, the minute she saw the hope on her son’s face, that she was going to support him no matter what. She could have continued to hate magic if it were just Harry, but how could she hate something that was now part of her son?  
  
    Vernon, of course, hadn’t seen it the same way, and it had been difficult, fighting him. They’d been a united front for years, after all, and sometimes it had felt impossible. Even now, some small part of Petunia was screaming at her to run back to him, to hide from magic again. The divorce had drained her, made all the worse by how he didn’t fight, how he had absolutely no interest in Dudley...  
  
    And now she was living in an apartment, surrounded by witches and wizards and squibs. Lily would have laughed herself sick.  
  
    Petunia’s thoughts turned to wondering what to make for dinner and, inevitably, towards the boys. If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t really sure how to act around them now that everything had gotten so complicated. Whenever she looked at Harry, she was torn between simmering hate and overwhelming guilt, and Dudley, well. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d been... different... since his eleventh birthday. It had seemed harmless enough, at first. He’s growing up, she’d told herself then, he’s more considerate and polite, and isn’t it wonderful? But then he’d gone to Hogwarts, and Petunia was getting letters about panic attacks and magical allergies and some kind of battle under the school, and all she could think was that she should’ve done something. Should have put a stop to it, because then maybe, maybe he wouldn’t have been accepted, and he could’ve gone on to Smeltings and everything would have been _normal_.  
  
    But despite how strange and serious he had become, Dudley seemed so - happy. Genuinely happy. And some days, when Petunia came home and heard him talking to Harry in their room about Hogwarts and magic and this or that potion, she wondered if she couldn’t have had something similar if she hadn’t let jealousy take control of her as a child. If she’d just loved her sister that little bit more.  
  
    “Hatherford Street!” the bus driver called, startling Petunia from her thoughts, and eased the bus to a stop. She regained her composure with a slight toss of her hair, then got up and exited the bus with her head held high.  
  
    She slowly made her way down Hatherford before turning right onto Wether Lane. A sunny spot surrounded by the shade of taller buildings, the Thisseldon Commons apartment complex was like a leafy little oasis. It was a drab, faded yellow W-shaped building, with flower beds squeezed into every free corner, and in both of the narrow courtyards was a decrepit old fountain. The whole thing was enclosed by a decorative, waist-high metal fence that looked like it couldn’t keep out a stray dog, let alone burglars. Fortunately, the landlady’s nephew was a deft hand at wards.  
  
    As usual, Ms. Blomgren was out front, puttering around in the flower beds. As Petunia drew near, the older woman straightened and waved at her, beaming, her short grey hair floating around her round cheeks in gentle puffs, like little rainclouds. “Good afternoon, dear!” she cried. “You’ve a visitor!”  
  
    “Good afternoon,” Petunia replied, then, “A visitor? Who?”  
  
    “Molly Weasley,” said Ms. Blomgren cheerfully, dusting her gloved hands off on her flowery overalls. “She came by about ten minutes ago, said she wanted to talk to you about something.” Petunia must have made a face, because her landlady hastened to reassure her. “Don’t fret, dear, she was quite in high spirits! Now, you go on up - if I know Molly, and I do, she’s got tea waiting, and I suspect you need a good strong cup!” And she gently shooed Petunia to the stairs.  
  
  
    As it turned out, Molly _had_ made tea. She’d also thrown together some cheese and cucumber sandwiches, and laid out some fresh apple slices to go with it. Petunia toed off her shoes and sank gratefully onto the sofa, a plate and mug floating gently to settle on the coffee table in front of her. “Molly,” she sighed, “you are a dream. How’ve you been?”  
  
    “Oh, you know me, I’m always busy,” said Mrs. Weasley, transfiguring one of the kitchen chairs into a more comfortable armchair. Unobserved - the boys were in the kitchen, chatting about broomsticks - Petunia finally allowed herself to relax, and picked up her mug. “Petunia, you look exhausted, if you don’t mind me saying.”  
  
    She sipped her tea, which was strong and black and had fresh mint mixed in, and replied, “I feel exhausted. I’ve always hated working as a secretary. But I’m looking for better.”  
  
    Molly considered her, eyes sympathetic, and sipped her own tea before saying, “Not to mention you’ve been cut off from Jean and I all summer.”  
  
    Petunia’s head jerked up, her tea sloshing dangerously in its mug. “What?”  
  
    “Oh, yes,” said the witch, and told her the whole story, as she understood it, stopping only to briefly explain what house elves were. By the end, Petunia almost wished that Molly hadn’t said anything at all.  
  
    Her hands tightened on the mug. “What do we do?” she asked, hating how her voice trembled. “Molly, if that - that _thing_ shows up at my work-!”  
  
    “Hush, now,” said Molly, gently taking the mug from her before it could break. “Take a deep breath, that’s it. I believe that this house elf will be more interested in following Harry - he didn’t seem the least bit interested in Dudley, after all.”  
  
    “But it was stopping our _mail_!” Petunia cried, clutching at her companion’s hands.  
  
    “Only to keep anyone from realizing what was happening, I should think,” came the calm reply. “And it ought to stop soon as the boys are out of the house. Now, I know it’s a little while until September still, but it’s been a quiet summer, and I thought perhaps I could bring them to the Burrow. Get them away from the city, and let them play with children their own age a while, and give you a little less to worry about.” Molly leveled a knowing look at her. “Petunia, you are wound up so tight I’m half worried you’ll burst!”  
  
    Petunia sagged. “I feel that way,” she murmured, withdrawing her hands to rub at her face. For a moment, her mind was peacefully blank - then she straightened up, feeling surprisingly refreshed. All was not lost. There were plans to make. “Well, if you’re willing to take them, Molly, I think they’d love it. They’ve been cooped up here with all these old ladies for quite long enough.”  
  
    The older woman threw back her head and laughed, delighted, and Petunia smiled.  
  
  
    There was a flurry of activity as Harry and Dudley rushed to get everything packed into their trunks. There were quills to dig out from under their beds, books, scraps of parchment, robes, socks. The owls, Hedwig and Altheda, watched with intense interest, knowing that they, too, would be going on vacation to the countryside.  
  
    “Dudley, would you like me to call your instructor and let him know you’re going away for a bit?” Dudley looked up at the doorway, where his mother was hovering anxiously. She looked pale and washed out, and he wished she could come with them.  
  
    “It’s fine, mum,” he said, cramming another book into his trunk, “I can do it. He won’t mind anyway, especially if I tell him I’ll keep exercising.”  
  
    “Instructor?” Mrs. Weasley asked as Dudley turned back to packing. “What for?”  
  
    “Boxing,” he heard Petunia say. There was a touch of pride in her voice. “A - Muggle sport. It’s all about throwing punches at each other.” They moved away from the door.  
  
    “I still say Quidditch is better,” Harry murmured, and threw a smirk at Dudley, who grinned back.  
  
    “Boxing,” he said loftily, “is a noble, ancient sport, which probably predates your fancy twigs by quite a bit, considering you don’t need anything for it.”  
  
    Harry rolled his eyes and replied, “I don’t think a couple of cavemen slapping each other counts as boxing, Dud.”  
  
    They finished packing and picked up the owl cages before going to the window and opening it. After a quick glance to make sure no one else was around, they opened the cages and let the birds out. “Meet us at the Burrow,” Harry told them. “You don’t have to rush, but don’t take too long, okay?” Hedwig perched on him long enough to affectionately nibble his ear, then took off. Altheda merely gave Dudley a haughty look before following.  
  
    The cages were packed into trunks, and to their delight, Mrs. Weasley spelled the trunks so small that they could fit in a pocket. Dudley called his boxing instructor while Harry went back upstairs to let Giulia know they were leaving. When he returned, Mrs. Weasley hugged Petunia, murmuring something they couldn’t hear and making her chuckle. When she moved away, Dudley stepped up and gave his mother a hug himself. He realized with a shock that she seemed thinner than usual, and more... delicate, as if she were barely there at all. He squeezed gently, then pulled back and looked up at her.  
  
    “Mum,” he said quietly, brows furrowing in concern, “please take care of yourself while we’re gone, okay?” She stared down at him as if she wasn’t sure who he was, and though Dudley couldn’t blame her - since, technically, he was a different person - he still couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. _Was I really so terrible before?_ he thought, but even before the thought had finished, sheepishly added, _Well, yeah_.  
  
    Finally, she reached up and smoothed his hair. “I’ll be fine, Dudders,” Petunia said with faux cheer. “You boys behave yourselves.” She glanced at Harry, who nodded, and Dudley followed Mrs. Weasley out of the apartment.  
  
    They walked out to the street, stopping only to say goodbye to Ms. Blomgren, and Mrs. Weasley put out her hand for the Knight Bus again. Dudley watched with great amusement as Harry’s eyes got huge the minute the bus showed up. He’d told Harry some vague details about it as soon as he’d got home, of course, but he felt that his cousin needed the full experience. He followed the smaller boy on board the bus, watching him stare around in bewilderment, and said, “Better find a place to sit!”  
  
    No sooner had he said this than the bus pitched forward, and the boys only just managed to throw themselves into seats before they could go flying. Not that it helped - the seats were various types of chair, none of them secured to the floor, and they skidded around as the bus moved. Mrs. Weasley was, of course, already sitting in one of the armchairs, knitting with gusto. Harry made a face at Dudley as they skidded into the far wall. “A little warning might’ve been nice,” he said dryly.  
  
    “You got more than I did,” Dudley said brightly, and they both turned to watch as the bus threaded its way through traffic, clutching the arms of their chairs tightly.  
  
  
    It wasn’t long til they reached their destination, and only Mrs. Weasley was unaffected by the nauseating ride. She ushered them into the Leaky, waving cheerily to Tom, before guiding them to the fireplace she and Dudley had used before. “Have either of you traveled by Floo?” she asked, holding the powder out to them. “No? Don’t worry, it’s simple enough! Just step in and say, very clearly, the name of the location you’re traveling to - the Burrow, in this case. Now, it can be disorienting the first time, so just remember to stay calm. You’ll be fine. Dudley, why don’t you go first?”  
  
    Grimacing, Dudley took a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, then stepped in and shouted, “The Burrow!”  
  
    Traveling by Floo was... unpleasant, to put it kindly. It was like getting pulled underwater by a strong current, or maybe sucked down a giant drain, and there was a great deal more spinning than there had any right to be. Dudley kept his eyes open, but only a little, because the spinning green flames were definitely not helping his roiling stomach. He kept his arms tucked in close, and grimaced as a strangely cold... _something_ slapped against his face.  
  
    He passed a blurred stream of fireplaces, catching glimpses of the rooms beyond, and began to relax as he did, straining for more detail at each one he passed. And then, through one, he saw a figure wearing a red cloak.  
  
    Before he could think about it, however, he found himself toppling out into the Weasleys’ living room, falling at the feet of several very surprised redheads. A heartbeat later, Harry fell out on top of him with a yelp. Mrs. Weasley stepped primly out after him, and beamed at her family.  
  
    “We’re having guests,” she said merrily, “for the rest of summer.”  
  
  
    The story was told over dinner by Harry, and in return, the Weasley children explained that they had all been out in town with their father when Dudley had called. “You gave us a fright, mum!” said George, shoveling potatoes onto his plate. “If you hadn’t left a note, we’d have called the Aurors!”  
  
    “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Weasley amiably. “The clock would’ve told you exactly what I was up to.”  
  
    The clock in question, which was located in the living room and could just be seen from the dinner table, looked perfectly normal. That is, until you noticed that there were multiple hands, all of them adorned with the names of Weasleys, and instead of numbers there were things like, “Traveling” or “Mortal Peril” or “Home”. Dudley wondered if he could get a wristwatch version. _Probably,_ he thought wryly, _I’d need several different versions of “Mortal Peril” for Harry._  
  
    “So are you really living in Thisseldon with Ms. Blomgren?” Ron asked Harry, who was sandwiched between him and Percy. “With all the Squibs?”  
  
    There was a touch of a snicker to his voice, which earned him a sharp, “Ronald!” from his mother. Harry looked faintly puzzled, clearly not getting the joke.  
  
    “Er, yeah,” he said, brow furrowing as he worked it out. “Everyone’s really nice, and there’re a lot of older students there. I didn’t know there was a university for wizards!”  
  
    “There’re loads,” Ron assured him. “Bill went, got in on scholarship. But apprenticeships are still pretty common.”  
  
    “Charlie, for example, apprenticed in Romania,” said Percy, warming to the subject. “There’s the London University, as you know, but there’s also a school in Wales, can’t remember the name. And there’s some scattered through Europe and Asia, but I don’t know if America has one yet. Ours are the best, of course-”  
  
    “D’you think you could get a degree and become a career prefect, Percy?” Fred wondered, tapping his chin in mock thought. “What would a prefect course be like anyway?”  
  
    George mimicked the gesture and said, “Well, obviously, there’s Prefect 101-”  
  
    “- How to Scowl Professionally -”  
  
    “- with a whole segment dedicated to the exact angle one’s nose should be held at, and then of course there’d be Badge Polishing, three whole classes of it -”  
  
    Dudley, unable to resist, despite how red in the face Percy was getting, cut in with, “How about Primping for Prefects?”  
  
    “Naturally!” agreed George, grinning at him. “With a follow-up class on Etiquette for the Professional Prat-”  
  
    “George,” said Mrs. Weasley warningly. Mr. Weasley was looking desperately at his plate, bright pink with smothered laughter. Everyone else was doing much the same, staring at foreheads and ceilings to keep from making eye contact.  
  
    “But let’s not forget the class on Taking Points from One’s Dearest, Darlingest Brothers Who’ve Never Done Anything Wr- oop!” At just that moment, when Percy seemed most likely to explode, a gray, feathery bundle walloped the back of Fred’s head, sending him face-first into his plate. It skidded across the table, knocking into mugs and plates, until it skidded gently to a stop in front of a rather alarmed Harry. Fred lifted his face, which was covered in bits of potato, gravy, and a single pea, to stare in astonishment at the bedraggled owl. It made eye contact with him, and weakly lifted its leg. Someone sniggered.  
  
    The dam broke, and everyone began to laugh uproariously, George leaning helplessly on his twin and clutching his ribs. Mrs. Weasley, giggling despite herself, passed Fred a paper napkin, and Percy, chuckling, gently picked up the owl and carried it away. By the time he returned, everyone had calmed down, so as he sat and handed the letter to Harry, he said apologetically, “That’s Errol, our owl. He’s a little old.”  
  
    “Who’s it from?” Fred asked, mopping the last of the gravy from his chin. He cheerfully flicked the pea at George, who yelped, then shot him a mock-affronted look.  
  
    Harry said, “Hermione.” at the same time as Ron, who added, “I wrote her just this morning. We’ve been really worried, the twins and I were nearly ready to come... find... you...” He carefully looked down at his plate as his mother stared intensely at him, and cleared his throat. “Er, what does she say?”  
  
    Pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose, Harry skimmed the letter, then said, “She says she hopes you don’t do anything illegal and she’ll be in Diagon Alley the Wednesday after our letters arrive, if you - I mean, we - would like to have lunch. That would be next Wednesday, wouldn’t it?” Harry looked hopefully up at the elder Weasleys, who shared a fond glance.  
  
    “I think we can manage Wednesday,” said Mrs. Weasley, and held up a dish. “More peas, dear?”  
  
  
    After dinner, Harry and Dudley followed Ron up an uneven, zigzagging staircase to his room, which was located at the very top of the house. The Burrow had once been a small stone structure of some kind, but over the years, room after room had been added to it until it was tall and uneven enough to be leaning rather dangerously to several sides at once. Dudley was pretty sure that magic was the only thing holding it all together, and was doing his level best not to think about it the higher they climbed.  
  
    Eventually, they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque that said RONALD’S ROOM in blocky lettering. Heads almost touching the sloping ceiling, Harry and Dudley stepped blinking into something rather like a furnace. Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange - not even the window was safe, because the latch was rigged with a bit of orange ribbon to keep it shut.  
  
    Harry, recovering more quickly than his cousin, realized what the walls and ceiling were covered with; “Posters!” he blurted, and moved to inspect the nearest one. “Your Quidditch team, wotsit, the Chudley Cannons?” The orange-clad figures on the poster waved at him, and, with a small grin, he waved back.  
  
    “Yeah,” said Ron, sounding pleased that his friend had remembered. For his part, Dudley didn’t mention that the name was plastered on everything. “They’re ninth in the league.”  
  
    “Aren’t the Holyhead Harpies seventh?” Dudley wondered aloud, mostly to needle Ron. In truth, he had no idea - while he’d been privy to most of Ron and Hannah’s Quidditch debates, he’d generally blocked them out in self defense. To be fair, most everyone did, unless they had their own opinions to contribute.  
  
    The redhead groaned in disgust and flopped down on his bed. The bedspread, which was also aggressively orange, sported two black Cs and a blazing cannonball. “You sound like Hannah and Ginny.”  
  
    Moving further into the room to poke at a stack of comics starring someone named Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, Harry said, “Your sister likes Quidditch?”  
  
    “I think the only one of us who doesn’t is Mum,” Ron said, flapping a hand dismissively, “and even she gets excited about it sometimes.” He sat up, watching them a bit nervously. “So, er, this is it. Not much, I know.”  
  
    “It’s brilliant,” Harry said, grinning over at him as Dudley nodded his agreement. “The best house I’ve ever been in.” Ron’s ears went pink, and Dudley very politely kept his amusement to himself.  
  
  
    Hedwig and Altheda turned up later, as the boys were going to bed, and in the morning, after breakfast, Dudley and Harry scribbled quick notes for them to take to Hermione, Neville, and Hannah. Then, Harry, Ron, and the twins headed up the hill to the little paddock the Weasleys owned to play a bit of Quidditch. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from the view of the village below, which meant they could do whatever they liked, so long as they didn’t fly too high. Dudley and Ginny tagged along, having been assigned the roles of apple throwers - they couldn’t risk using real Quidditch balls, because they would have been a bit hard to explain if they escaped and flew over the village.  
  
    Ginny had a good arm and better aim, and while she snickered at Dudley’s throws, she was also nice enough to give him pointers. They chatted as they threw, and the subject turned to the village around the same time as an apple passed dangerously close to Ron’s head.  
  
    “We go down sometimes,” Ginny said, ignoring her brother’s squawk of alarm. “Us kids. Mum doesn’t like it, it makes her feel awkward, and Dad’s usually too busy. The Muggles are really nice, Mrs. Rutherford has grandkids our age. Polly and Diggory - after book characters, I think she said.”  
  
    “That’s the Chronicles of Narnia, I think,” said Dudley slowly. The Magician’s Nephew had been Ariana’s favorite book - she’d learned to read on it, which had been tremendously frustrating for everyone involved, and they’d bought her a brand new copy to take to Hogwarts.  
  
    “We’ll probably visit while you’re here,” Ginny was saying, and he refocused on her with an effort. “ _I_ will, anyway. They’re going to teach me football.” She sounded a little skeptical, but there was a thread of excitement, too.  
  
    Dudley was pretty sure she’d have fun, even if she didn’t grow to love it as much as she did Quidditch. He opened his mouth to say as much, chucking an apple as he did, only to find the fruit coming right back at him. He ducked instinctively, and heard the apple hit the tree behind him with a loud _thock_.  
  
    “Dudley!”  said George amiably, descending from on high with a suspiciously cheery grin. “Dudders, old buddy, we’ve heard from a reliable source -”  
  
    “Ron,” Fred confided in a stage whisper as he landed nearby. “And Percy, and most of Hufflepuff, come to that -”  
  
    “- that you’d had a bit of trouble in flying class this year.” The first twin clucked his tongue sadly. “Bad business, a shame really, having to take a remedial class this year.” At Dudley’s puzzled look, he added, “We heard that one from a portrait.”  
  
    “So we’d thought -”  
  
    “- out of the kindness of our hearts and a healthy appreciation for your joining in on our ribbing good old Percy -”  
  
    “- that we’d help you with your flying so you could test out of it?”  
  
    They beamed at him. Dudley, stomach twisting itself into a knot, looked rather desperately at Ginny. She ignored him, a look of serene benevolence on her face as she lobbed apples at Ron and Harry with deadly accuracy. With some hesitation, the Hufflepuff looked back at the twins. “Er, I don’t know,” he began, rather less firmly than he’d wanted. “Is it really that important? And, well, I don’t have the best track record here.”  
  
    “‘Is it that important?’ he says. _Merlin_.” George covered his eyes, a tortured expression upon his face.  
  
    Fred, on the other hand, looked at him with a seriousness and clarity that was very, very unnerving. “No, but you haven’t had so many panic attacks recently, have you?”  
  
    He blinked. “Well, no, but -”  
  
    “Nor are you currently experiencing magical allergies,” George cut in, just as alarmingly solemn. “Or under any stress, and you haven’t got a grade depending on it. You’ll be fine. And if you aren’t, we’ll help you.”  
  
    Dudley, completely unable to come up with an argument, studied them a moment. The twins were both excellent flyers, and he knew that while they could and would tease him without mercy, they were much more considerate than they let on. And, well, Dudley had recently found that it was extremely difficult to deny George Weasley anything when one remembered the tired, unnaturally quiet war survivor who, for years after, still looked utterly broken when he reached for his twin and realized he wasn’t there.  
  
    “Fine,” said Dudley’s mouth, and he sighed. “But if you prank me, I’m going to recruit Ginny to take you down.”  
  
    The girl in question looked over in surprise, matching her brothers raised eyebrow for raised eyebrow. Fred looked warily at George. “He learns quickly, this one,” he said.  
  
    “That’s self preservation kicking in,” said George wisely, tapping his nose. “He’s figured out the only way to keep himself safe is to forge an alliance early.” And he ducked to avoid an apple.  
  
    In fairly short order, Dudley found himself perched on Fred’s broom, gripping it tightly as he hovered a few feet off the ground. George had a hand on the back of the broom to keep it steady as his brother ran Dudley through the basics of steering in case he’d forgotten. Above their heads, Ron and Harry were tossing apples to each other, having quickly lost interest when they realized the twins were actually going to be helpful. Ginny had ceased throwing for the time being, watching quietly from a log.  
  
    “Loosen your grip,” she said unexpectedly, waving a leafy twig at them. “The only time you should need to hold on that tight is in an emergency. Just relax.” She sounded strangely grown up for an eleven year old, and Dudley peered suspiciously at her for a moment before obeying. Fred, catching on, helped him adjust, then corrected his posture.  
  
    Finally, when the twins deemed him unlikely to fall off, George gave the broom a gentle shove forward. Dudley wobbled dangerously, and worried for a moment that his sweating hands would slip and he’d go crashing to the ground. It didn’t happen, though, and he flew a couple jerky laps around the clearing as he tried to figure out how to control the speed. There was a perilous moment where he almost hit a tree, but George was at his side in a flash, talking him down from the flare of tree-induced panic, and guided him round once before letting him fly on his own again.  
  
    But there were no other incidents, so when he grew confident enough to gain a little more height, Ron gently tossed him an apple, drawing him into the little game of catch. He missed more than he caught, but he didn’t fall, and fairly soon he was zipping around with his cousin and friend, the twins watching carefully from the ground.  
  
    Glancing down after a particularly bad miss on his part, Dudley noticed Ginny, who still hadn’t flown, and abruptly came back to himself. He said, a bit sheepishly, “I think I’m done for now - why don’t we trade off, Ginny?”  
  
    Fred grumbled good-naturedly, but when Dudley landed clumsily, took the broom from him and passed it to his sister with a grin. “Go give Harry a run for his money,” he suggested. With a brilliant smile, Ginny was off, George flying up to join her as she gained altitude.  
  
    “You are playing a dangerous game, Dudders,” said the grounded twin, dropping an arm over the younger boy’s shoulders. “Mum doesn’t like her precious babby flying around like a hellion.”  
  
    “I won’t tell if you won’t,” said Dudley, scratching his nose and grinning.  
  
    Harry, of course, was delighted to have another Seeker to play with. Maybe she wasn’t as good yet, but he was rusty from lack of playing over the summer anyway, so they found themselves pretty evenly matched. Ron and George played Beaters, and the game went on until it was time to go back to the Burrow for lunch. Ginny chattered excitedly on the way down the hill, discussing techniques with an equally enthusiastic Harry without a trace of her former shyness.  
  
    Lunch was cold roast beef sandwiches and colder lemonade, which they ate sitting outside on the grass, and after that, they set to de-gnoming the garden. It was something the cousins had never done before - Harry because he was still new to everything magic, and Dudley because Padma took a vicious pleasure in hexing them. He had, at least, seen it done the traditional way, because once Ariana and the twins were old enough, it became their chore.  
  
    When Harry expressed concern about the gnomes, the youngest Weasley brother took it upon himself to enlighten him. “These,” said Ron, with a touch of pride, holding a struggling, potato-esque gnome up by its bony ankles, “are Devon gnomes. Country bred, so they’re more like rocks than anything. You just have to make them dizzy so they can’t find their way back to their holes.” Ron swung the it over his head and let go, and the gnome swore at them as it arced through the air, stopping only when it hit the field with a solid _thud_.  
  
    “Pitiful,” said Fred with a sniff. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.”  
  
    Many fingers were bitten and wrists kicked, but in the end, the boys and Ginny stood triumphant, watching a the last of the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the far side of the field, hunched in defeat.  
  
    Mrs. Weasley inspected their handiwork with an air of skepticism, and finally declared the garden de-gnomed, though she did sigh, “I wish you’d use Gilderoy Lockhart’s method, he’s really much more... efficient.”  
  
    Her children made a valiant but vain attempt not to roll their eyes, and Harry asked, “Who’s Gilderoy Lockhart?”  
  
    “A brilliant wizard,” said Mrs. Weasley, and drew from a pocket a book. Fancy gilt letters on the front declared it to be _Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide of Household Pests_. Beneath that was a large photograph of a grinning, movie star attractive wizard. He winked cheekily at everyone, and Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him. Harry looked like he rather regretted asking.  
  
    “He knows his household pests, all right,” she said dreamily. “Absolutely marvelous.”  
  
    “Mum fancies him,” George stage-whispered, and his mother went a bit pink.  
  
    “Don’t be so ridiculous,” she said, and put the book away. “In any case, boys, Altheda and Hedwig are back, and they’ve letters for you. You may all go down the village til dinner is ready, if you like - it’s at six.”  
  
    Fred let out an exaggerated gasp. “Mum! You’re a peach!” He kissed her cheek, his twin doing the same on the other side, and she batted them away, scoffing.  
  
    Two letters were from Neville and Hannah, who were both very relieved to hear from them, and wrote to say that they’d be meeting with Hermione in Diagon Alley too. The third letter was from Hermione herself, just a quick note to let them know she’d got their reply. They decided to send notes later, and returned to the company of the Weasley children.  
  
    A curious thing about wizards was that their casual wear was actually mostly the same as a Muggle’s, though most of it looked very 1970s, or, in some of the more extreme cases, the 1870s. Despite this, there was always a great fuss over ‘dressing Muggle’ for going into Muggle-populated areas, and somehow, the results were always... exciting. Even the Weasley children, who were much more up to date than their parents, were not entirely immune.  
  
    There was nothing for it, though, and soon, Harry and Dudley set out with a group of redheads wearing mismatched and brightly colored clothing. Despite their misgivings, no one in the village so much as batted an eyelash, though one woman did roll her eyes fondly at her friend. They stopped at one of the shops to get a snack, the twins handling the money, and they continued on until they reached a little cottage at the end of a quiet, shady lane.  
  
    When the door opened, a plump, pretty black girl of about thirteen stepped out and grinned at them. Her thick hair was in hundreds of tiny braids with beads on, and her fingernails were painted pink - a quick glance at her bare feet revealed that her toenails matched. Despite the nail polish, she wore old, comfortable jeans and a tank top, and there was a football in her arms.  
  
    “Hi, Weasleys,” she said brightly. “And friends. I was hoping we’d see you today.” She stuck one hand out to Harry and Dudley, who took turns shaking it. “I’m Polly.”  
  
    “Harry, and this is Dudley,” said Harry. “We go to the same school.”  
  
    Polly shoved her feet into the beat-up tennis shoes that were beside the door, saying, “The fancy one up in Scotland? I bet that’s exciting. C’mon, Diggory’s out in the field with the others.”  
  
    Diggory was Ginny’s age, and he was about the same size as Dudley, if a little shorter. There were a handful of other children of varying ages with him, and they all greeted the Weasleys with warmth. It seemed that as eccentric as the Weasley’s must’ve seemed, they were the _village’s_ eccentrics, and in fact, Harry and Dudley’s normalcy seemed to disappoint them.  
  
    To his complete lack of surprise, Dudley was pants at football. He made a valiant effort all the same, but it was with some relief that he retired to the sidelines to act as a ref. He’d never had much skill at sports, save boxing, and even that had been more brute force than skill, as he’d so recently discovered during class. But the Weasleys mostly took to football like ducks to water, and Harry was quick enough to make up for any mishaps, so it was all in all a very exciting game, though the villagers won in the end. Everyone sprawled out on the grass and someone passed around water bottles, and Dudley found himself sitting with Polly a little away from everyone else.  
  
    This, he discovered, was on purpose. “They think,” she said in a low voice with a meaningful look at the Weasleys, “that none of us know they’re magic. But the Weasleys have been around for ages and none of us is that blind.” She rolled her eyes affectionately, unknowing of how Dudley’s stomach had turned to ice. “But we can’t say anything because their dad is in government, and they don’t want us non-magic folks to know. I’m only saying because you seem more like us.”  
  
    “Does, er - does the whole village know?” Dudley asked, and it didn’t ease his mind when she nodded.  
  
    Catching on to his concern, she hastened to reassure him. “Listen, no one’s telling any secrets, I just wanted you to know because I think magic folks shouldn’t have to hide. If someone who’s a little of both worlds can, I dunno, get the word out, then maybe there’s a chance.”  
  
    Dudley stared at her for a long moment, brows furrowed. “Are you sure you’re a kid?” Polly blinked, then snorted a laugh, and the tension eased. “I think you’re right, though. I’ve been thinking about it too, honestly - would it be all right to write you? When I learn more, I mean.”  
  
    “Sure, that’d be fine,” she said amiably. “I can give you our address. So, how does magic mail arrive? D’you have postmen on broomsticks?”  
  
    “No,” Dudley admitted, a little wistfully. “Although I think large packages can come that way. Mostly, letters and things are delivered by owls.”  
  
    “No ravens or anything? Seems a shame, that. Missing an opportunity.”  
  
    They chatted quietly, Dudley revealing tiny pieces of information he was pretty sure wouldn’t violate the Statute of Secrecy, and by the time they had to part ways, were already fast friends. They exchanged addresses written on a bit of spare paper Dudley had in his pocket, and promises were made to meet up again for video games before summer’s end.  
  
    Tucking the address into his pocket as they made their way back to the Burrow, Dudley thought, for the first time, that maybe his trip to the past could be good for something other than protecting Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out, I started work this month and it, uh, has been hell on my creativity. Retail, what can you do. Also, I still have horrendous internet. I will try to have chapter three up early July though!
> 
> As always let me know if you spot any errors/weird bits, and please tell me if any characterization is off! I am a little concerned about the pacing towards the end, so please let me know what you think.
> 
> In this chapter, finally, at long last, we see the beginnings of the Muggle-Wizard relations that will eventually drive Dudley's magical career - and in fact drove part of his former career. I believe I hinted at it in the last book, but in this one you'll get to see a bit more of the life he left behind. Promise. For realsies.


	3. At Flourish & Blott's

**CHAPTER THREE**

  
  
  
    A flower pot full of a familiar green powder was waved under Harry’s nose, and he tried - and failed - to hold back a groan.  
  
    “You’ll get used to it, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley kindly, an amused twinkle in her eye. “Best get it over with, hm?”  
  
    Harry eyed the floo powder with distaste, but stuck his hand into the pot anyway, thinking sourly, Well, at least it’s not the Knight Bus again. He withdrew, powder slipping between his fingers, and tossed it cautiously on the fire. The flames roared, turning a blinding emerald green, and he stepped in with a grimace, doing his best to ignore the strange tingle of the fire. He opened his mouth to speak, taking a deep breath as he did.  
  
    And got a lungful of soot.  
  
    “D-diagonalley!” he coughed, startled, and was whisked into the system. He wrapped his arms around himself and resisted the urge to double over as he coughed his way past fireplaces.  
  
    It seemed to take much longer than it had the last time, and he was so preoccupied worrying about it that he was caught completely off guard when he was spat out into a dusty shop. He hit the stone floor with a _whumf_ , glasses flying free of his face, and he lay there dazed for a moment, head reeling. Finally, he shook his head to clear it and went in search of his glasses, stifling a groan of dismay when he discovered them broken. Harry wasn’t sure he could get away with magic here, like he could at home or at the Burrow.  
  
    Still dizzy and holding his broken glasses up to his face, Harry began to inspect his surroundings. He was alone in a dimly lit shop, and while that would normally not be anything to worry about, this particular shop wasn’t exactly Florean Fortescue’s.  
  
    In a glass case nearby, a withered hand rested on a tatty velvet cushion, flanked by a bloodstained pack of cards and a glass eye that swiveled round to stare back at Harry of its own accord. Masks hung on the walls, covered in threatening paint and spikes and, in several cases, what looked suspiciously like human skin and cheap fake eyelashes. An assortment of bones, human, animal, and probably dragon, rested on the counter, carefully labeled tags tied to them. Rusty, spiked instruments dangled from the ceiling, but worse were the gleaming, highly polished ones resting in a crystal case that was locked with a chain and had such strong wards that it made Harry’s eyes water to look at it for more than a few moments.  
  
    Thoroughly creeped out, Harry quietly made for the door, but before he could reach it, saw two people on the other side of the shop window - and though he’d never admit it, he was as relieved to see Draco Malfoy as he was horrified at the idea of encountering him while lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses.  
  
    He looked round and, spotting a large black cabinet to his left, all but threw himself inside and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small gap to peek through. The cabinet smelled old and musty and slightly of rot, prompting Harry to breathe very carefully and quietly through his mouth. He shuffled awkwardly, then went still as a bell clanged and Malfoy stepped into view. A hand rested on his shoulder, and Harry squinted at the pale, pointed visage of the elder Malfoy, who glanced round at the shop’s contents before murmuring something to Draco and going to ring the bell on the counter.  
  
    “Touch nothing, Draco,” he said without turning around. Malfoy, who hadn’t moved since their entry, remained curiously silent, and looked carefully at his feet. “You won’t get a new racing broom if you get yourself cursed witless.”  
  
    “It won’t do me any good anyway,” said Malfoy, with a strangely half-hearted whine, “if I’m not on the House team. ” He bent to examine a case of skulls, face disappearing from view, but Harry had a very clear look at the elder Malfoy’s expression. The man stared down at his son with a mixture of disgust and puzzlement, sneering, and seemed about to speak - but then he lifted his head, expression smoothing out.  
  
    “Ah,” he said, mildly, “Mr. Borgin.”  
  
    A stooping man moved into view, smoothing greasy hair back from his face and smiling thinly. “Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” he said in an oily voice. “Delighted - and young Master Malfoy as well - charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced -”  
  
    The elder Malfoy lifted a hand to silence him. “I’m afraid, Mr. Borgin, that I am not here to buy, but to sell.”  
  
    “Sell?” The smile dripped slowly away from Borgin’s face.  
  
    “You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for the shopkeeper to read. “I have a few - ah - items at home that might embarrass me, should the Ministry come to call...”  
  
    Harry glanced at the younger Malfoy, and was surprised to see him standing very still with his shoulders hunched, looking anywhere but at the transaction taking place. A low throat-clearing pulled Harry back into the conversation, and he watched with wary curiosity as Mr. Borgin settled a pair of pince-nez on his nose and examined the list.  
  
    “The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?” he suggested, but he didn’t sound particularly hopeful, and he hummed a little when Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.  
  
    “I have not been visited _yet_ ,” he admitted, stressing the last word. “The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act - no doubt that fleabitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it.”  
  
    Harry felt a hot surge of anger, but through the rushing sound in his ears, he heard his nemesis interrupt with a hasty, “Can I have that?”  
  
    Draco Malfoy was pointing at the withered hand. Borgin’s entire person lit up as he scurried over to the case. “Ah!” he cried. “The Hand of Glory. Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”  
  
    Mr. Malfoy did not turn to look, merely inspected his fingernails for dirt with an icy visage. “I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” he said coolly.  
  
    Borgin went pale. “No offense meant, sir, no offense meant -”  
  
    “Though if his grades don’t pick up,” Mr. Malfoy continued, as if he hadn’t heard the shopkeeper, “that may indeed be all he is fit for.” The look he directed at Draco was pure malice.  
  
    “It’s hardly my fault,” said Draco, as if this was a discussion they’d already had many times, and they went back and forth a moment, trading petulance and ice, and Harry struggled to make sense of the situation.  
  
    It sounded like it ought to. It sounded like a spoiled brat and his snob of a father arguing over anything and everything. But Harry, who’d heard countless similar arguments til very recently, felt that there was something off about the whole thing. As Mr. Malfoy turned back to Borgin, Harry kept a sharp eye on his son. Even so, he almost missed the way Draco’s shoulders slumped, the way his head bowed, and the sight of one sleeve sliding up just enough to reveal something that looked suspiciously like a burn scar.  
  
    Mr. Malfoy and Borgin began to haggle, and Harry watched with a sort of blank nervousness as Draco poked around the shop, gradually drawing nearer the cupboard. The blond studied a coil of hangman’s rope and eyed a necklace of opals with interest as he read the card propped against it, which read, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed The Lives Of Nineteen Muggle Owners To Date.  
  
    Draco turned away and spied the cabinet, and made for it, hand outstretched. Harry held his breath and tightly gripped his wand, preparing to run. “Done,” said Mr. Malfoy suddenly, and his son stilled. “Come, Draco - Good day to you, Mr. Borgin, I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”  
  
    The other boy stared at the cabinet for a long moment, then finally moved away, and Harry waited til they left to breathe again. Borgin retreated to the back of the shop, muttering darkly, and it was several long minutes before Harry felt safe enough to slip out of the cabinet. With a final wary glance around the room, he crept out of the shop, quickly scuttling a few feet away when the bell rang.  
  
    Holding his broken glasses to his face, Harry examined his surroundings. It was a grubby, twisting alleyway he found himself in, crowded by shops that mainly seemed dedicated to the Dark Arts. Across the way was a gruesome window display of a variety of shrunken heads, each with a carefully penned label beside them, and as he glanced at a cage of large spiders, Harry felt a strange surge of deja vu.  
  
    Ignoring the two shabby-looking wizards who were eyeing him speculatively from the shadow of a doorway, Harry hunched his shoulders against the feeling and set off down the street. An old wooden sign over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. The name was familiar - _Maybe Fred and George told me about it,_ he thought absently, twisting to avoid an old woman carrying a tray of human fingernails. _Seems like the kind of place they’d be interested in, anyway._  
  
    Either way, he knew, as a result, that Knockturn Alley was connected to Diagon Alley, and this was confirmed by a dusty street sign a few yards away. Cheered, he continued on, trying not to look too closely at the alley’s inhabitants, though once he thought he saw Hagrid’s massive form in the crowd. He considered calling out, but decided not to draw attention to himself.  
  
    There was no further sign of the Malfoys, but Harry did spy several Ravenclaws from his year hurrying into a secondhand robe shop. A drab, harried-looking woman followed them in. Harry watched curiously, brow furrowed, but it was none of his business, in the end.  
  
    When he finally emerged, blinking dust from his eyes, he found himself squinting right down Diagon Alley at Gringotts. Heaving a relieved sigh, he started towards it, only to be tackled to the ground by a whirlwind with bushy hair.  
  
    “Harry!” the whirlwind cried. “Thank Merlin you’re all right! We’ve been all _over_ trying to find you -”  
  
    “Hermione?” he squawked, glasses dangling precariously from one ear. He squinted, and saw a red-headed mass approaching them at alarming speeds.  
  
    “We hoped you’d only gone a grate too far,” puffed Mr. Weasley as he jogged into focus, mopping his glistening bald patch with a handkerchief. “Molly’s coming now, she’s frantic -”  
  
    “Where’d you come out?” asked Ron eagerly.  
  
    “Er -”  
  
    A familiar large shape emerged and became Dudley, whose eyes were tight with worry. “All right,” he said, eyeing Harry, “Hold on a minute - Hermione, let him breathe, hey?”  
  
    Immediately, she drew back, looking sheepish. “Sorry,” she said, then frowned. “What happened to your glasses?”  
  
    “Fell off when I landed,” Harry admitted, accepting the hand up that Dudley offered, and jumped in surprise when his glasses repaired themselves and perched gently on his nose. He looked up to see the culprit, and just had time to register Molly Weasley before he was pulled into a warm hug. Harry relaxed into the embrace, too relieved to mind when she soon pulled away and took a large clothes brush from her bag.  
  
    “Oh, Harry,” she sighed, sweeping clouds of soot off him, “you could have been anywhere, we were so worried - where _did_ you come out?”  
  
    “Er,” said Harry, then grimaced. “Knockturn Alley.” The brushing stopped, and he carefully avoided looking anyone in the eye.  
  
    “Wicked!” cried the twins.  
  
    “We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.  
  
    Mrs. Weasley sniffed. “I should think not,” she said, scathingly, and gave him one final sweep of the brush before tucking it away. “Well, he’s all right now, and that’s the important thing. Did anyone give you trouble?”  
  
    Harry shook his head as they all started back towards Gringotts. “No, but I did see the Malfoys in Borgin  & Burkes.”  
  
    “Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” Mr. Weasley asked sharply from behind him.  
  
    “No, he was selling -”  
  
    “He’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with a sort of grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get him for something -”  
  
    Mrs. Weasley cut in with something pointed, and they bickered quietly as they approached the bank. Harry, meanwhile, gestured to Hermione, Ron, and Dudley. The four drifted to the back of the group, and in a low voice, Harry said, “Malfoy was acting really weird, though.”  
  
    This piqued their interest. “How d’you mean?” Ron asked.  
  
    Harry frowned as he thought about it. “Like he didn’t want to be there, I guess? And his father seemed angry with him. And...” _How,_ he wondered, _do I explain the way Malfoy interrupted his father? As if he were purposely derailing the conversation to get it away from the Weasleys?_ “I dunno,” he finished, lamely. “It was just weird.”  
  
    “Maybe he’s being transferred to Durmstrang,” said Ron hopefully. “Or _Mars_.”  
  
    “Don’t be silly, we’d have heard something by now,” Hermione sniffed. “And besides, no one can live on Mars.”  
  
    “That’s the best part!”  
  
    Harry was distracted from the argument by a hesitant touch to his shoulder. He turned and looked at Dudley, and for the first time noticed the anxious furrow in his brow. “Are you really all right?” his cousin asked quietly.  
  
    “I’m fine,” said Harry. Internally, he once again pushed down the uneasy, oily feeling that Dudley Shouldn’t Be There. It was as if his cousin were an ill-fitting puzzle piece someone had jammed into the universe and left there. _Which is stupid,_ he thought as they climbed the steps of the bank and joined the Grangers. _He’s just Dudley._ But another, quieter part of his brain said, _Is he really?_  
  
    Hermione and Dudley went together to their accounts, since they were both in the Muggleborn section, and Harry rode with Mrs. Weasley - everyone else remained behind. He enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasley vault, happy for the distraction, but felt horrible when it had opened, because there was only a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley, unruffled, checked the corners for lurking coins before sweeping the lot into her bag. When they reached the Potter vault, Harry tried in vain to block the contents from view as he shoved coins into a bag of his own. He tried not to meet Mrs. Weasley’s eye as he got back in the cart, feeling horribly guilty, but when he glanced sheepishly up at her, she only smiled fondly at him.  
  
    “Don’t you fret, dear,” she said gently, reaching out to smooth his hair and settling for patting it instead. “We do all right.”  
  
    Back outside the bank, they all split up. Percy disappeared with a mutter about new quills, and the twins had spotted Lee Jordan and run off. Mrs. Weasley shouted at the three of them to meet them at Flourish and Blotts in an hour, then extended that instruction to everyone else before she went with Ginny and Mrs. Granger to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Granger retreated to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, the former firing excited questions at Hermione’s rather perplexed father.  
  
    Harry looked at Ron, Hermione, and Dudley, who looked back, and said, “Who wants ice cream?”  
  
    A few moments later, eating their treats and trying not to drip any on their hands, the four children wandered lazily up the alley, admiring the window displays. Ron stared longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until the others, having walked on, realized that he was missing and went back to fetch him. Hermione persuaded them to stock up on ink and parchment in a shop nearby, and they had to scarf down the rest of their ice cream before they could go in. A stern old witch with powder-white curls watched them with narrowed eyes, and took their sticky coins with a look of pure distaste.  
  
    They found the twins and Lee in Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, where they were buying Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks and discussing the merits of lizard skin with the shopkeeper. Soon tiring of the conversation and George’s attempts to get a fake cockroach down the back of Ron’s shirt, the little group returned to the sunny street.  
  
    A few moments were spent debating whether or not to venture down Vortic Alley - “Have you ever been, Ron?” “Yeah, it’s all secondhand book shops and things, but it mostly caters to apprentices and university students, so I only went with Bill.” - before it was finally decided that a quick look couldn’t hurt. They took the gently spiraling street at a leisurely pace, awed by the sheer number of foreign wizards they encountered. It seemed that everyone was either in a great hurry or were camped out with no inclination towards moving before dinnertime, if at all, and there were so many books that Hermione got a little emotional.  
  
    They peeped into the dim, spicy smelling depths of a grocery, and were given a handful of sweets by the old, smiling black man who owned the shop. Hermione unwrapped a candy that she thought was a gumball before, at a poke of her finger, it unfurled robin’s egg blue petals of spun sugar and revealed a shiny white chocolate pearl that sang jaunty little songs. Ron’s was a geometric gummy puzzle in various flavors, most of which none of them could recognize, which blew cinnamon bubbles at you whenever you got something wrong. Dudley got a small, delicate sugar fishbowl that contained melon soda and had little mint fishes swimming around inside. Harry’s was a paper tube that, when you pulled the end off, opened up and became a stage for tiny chocolate actors, who performed a spirited little play that turned tragic when one of them accidentally fell into Dudley’s fish bowl.  
  
    When the sweets had been consumed, Harry bought a wedge of cheese and a couple of sausages and a handful of the candy to take home, and the four resumed their walk. Hermione insisted on dragging them into several of the bookshops, and though they couldn’t stay for long, she still emerged with several dusty tomes.  
  
    And then they discovered the University.  
  
    At the very center of the spiral that was Vortic Alley, there was a cloister, which boasted a lovely marble fountain with a clock on top as a centerpiece. Around the edges of the cloister stood open arcades -  walkways with tall, slim pillars and elegant arches - and there were stone reliefs of fabulous creatures round the tops of the pillars. Directly opposite the children were two large oak doors, similarly carved and set with precious metals. Here and there, a student hurrried past one of the open doors in the arcades, and there was an ancient professor with a beard to rival Dumbledore’s dozing on a bench in the shade.  
  
    “Is this where Bill went?” Hermione asked Ron, voice lowered so as not to disturb the peace of the cloister. Harry hadn’t realized til she spoke, but it was as if there were silencing charms on - none of the noise from the alley filtered through at all.  
  
    “Yeah,” Ron replied, just as quietly, and looked up at the pillars with pride. “Graduated top of the class, y’know.”  
  
    Harry turned to Dudley, opening his mouth to crack a joke, but all words were wiped from his mind by the sight of his cousin’s face. The large boy was staring up at the university with an expression of such pain and longing that he didn’t even look like the same person anymore. Feeling paralyzed, Harry could only gape at him as Hermione and Ron chatted, until he managed to glance past him and notice the time on the fountain’s clock.  
  
    “C’mon,” he whispered to the others, “we need to get back to meet Mrs. Weasley.”  
  
    As if coming out of a trance, they all one by one turned back, and as soon as they crossed the invisible line between alley and cloister, all the world’s sound returned. “That’s the back entrance,” Ron explained as they walked, “so they keep it quiet for the older professors, like.”  
  
    “What about - oh!” A crate containing a large number of books toppled to the ground, and Hermione nearly joined them, except that the person she’d run into was able to catch her at the last minute.  
  
    “I’m sorry!” The man, who looked kind and worried behind the old scars on his face, made sure Hermione was steady before letting go of her arms. “Are you all right?”  
  
    “Fine, thanks,” Hermione breathed, eyes still wide with surprise. Then she looked down. “I’m sorry about your books, I should’ve been watching where I was going!”  
  
    She bent to pick them up, and Harry and the stranger joined in, and soon the books were safely back in their crate. “Don’t worry about it,” the stranger said gently, “these books have seen worse. I’m just glad you’re all right. Here -” He fished around in the pocket of his patched coat, then pulled out a little notebook and scribbled something down as Hermione watched curiously. He tore the page out with relish, then handed it to her, smiling. “Two free books, if you ever feel like visiting Sherrinford Books and Cartography. It’s just down the way.”  
  
    Hermione took the paper eagerly. “Really? What sort of books are there?”  
  
    “Oh, a bit of everything, really,” said the man cheerfully. “Lots of history, but there are some interesting books on Arithmancy and the like.”  
  
    “Any novels?” Dudley asked curiously, drawn into the conversation. “It seems like there aren’t a lot of those in the Wizarding World.” He stopped a little abruptly, as if he’d wanted to say something else but decided against it.  
  
    The stranger shook his head regretfully. “Not at Sherrinford, more’s the pity. I know that Ms. Rollins has some, though - she owns the Farlingol over on Lexic Alley.”  
  
    Ron rolled his eyes at Harry as their companions chatted a bit longer, until Hermione reluctantly put an end to it, admitting, “We’ve got to get back to Diagon, but we’ll be back for sure!”  
  
    “I look forward to it, Miss-?” the stranger offered his hand for her to shake, as if they were equals, and she took it, beaming.  
  
    “Granger,” she said brightly. “Hermione Granger. And this is Dudley Dursley, and Ronald Weasley -” “Oi!” “- and Harry Potter.”  
  
    “Remus Lupin,” said the stranger, and though he looked at Harry with a curiously gentle expression, added only, “I shan’t keep you. Come by any time - and please, say hello to Molly and Arthur for me!”  
  
  
    Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were surprised to hear that the children(who were late by fifteen minutes, and were only saved from a scolding by Harry’s offering of the cheese and sausage he’d bought Mrs. Weasley) had met Mr. Lupin. “It’s been ages since we’d heard from him,” Mrs. Weasley said, putting Harry’s gift into her bag. She bent and kissed him on the forehead, and though he blushed, he was more pleased than embarassed by the affection. “Still,” she continued as she ushered them towards Flourish  & Blott’s, “it’s good to know he’s doing all right for himself. And - goodness, what is all this fuss about?”  
  
    The shop was packed, and outside were still more people, pushing and shoving at each other as they tried to get in. Ginny spotted the banner first, pointing up at the fabric that was hanging a little lopsidedly where someone had tried to yank it down for a souvenir. It read, in bright purple lettering:  
  
    GILDEROY LOCKHART  
    will be signing copies of his autobiography  
    MAGICAL ME  
    today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.  
  
    “We can actually meet him!” Hermione burst out, clapping her hands. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”  
  
    As they got closer, Harry realized that the crowd was almost entirely made up of witches around Mrs. Weasley’s age, though he did notice one or two wizards amongst them. A harassed-looking wizard in dark robes stood at the door, occasionally firing off the occasional gentle spell from his wand to push someone this way or that as he said, “Calmly, please, ladies... Don’t push, there... Mind the books, now...”  
  
    The Weasley party squeezed through one by one, and regrouped just inside. The children scuttled away to pick up their books, and by the time they returned, Molly was in line for the signing, in high spirits. “Oh, good, you’re back already,” she said, sounding breathless with excitement, patting her hair for the umpteenth time. “We’ll be able to see him in just a moment...”  
  
    Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. Overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of teeth and blond hair, it took Harry a few moments to pick out the real Lockhart. He wore robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes, and his pointed hat, with tiny mystical symbols picked out at the edge in white thread, was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.  
  
    A short, irritable-looking man was darting around taking photographs of the event with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. “Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron and Dudley, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet.”  
  
    “Big deal,” Ron muttered, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.  
  
    Somehow, despite the noise, Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron, and then he saw Harry. For a very long moment, he stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be Harry Potter?”  
  
    Harry immediately started backpedaling as the crowd parted, whispering excitedly, but he wasn’t quick enough. Lockhard dove forward, seized his arm, and pulled him to the front amidst thunderous applause. Harry’s face burned, and he stared imploringly at his friends, who could only stare back helplessly as he was subjected to Lockhart’s overly enthusiastic handshake. The photographer clicked like mad, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys which Dudley kept trying to wave away with one of the books.  
  
    “Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart through his own gleaming teeth, and a vague corner of Harry’s mind was a little impressed. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”  
  
    At last, he let go of Harry’s hand, which had gone numb, and Harry attempted to sidle back over the Weasleys. He’d barely taken a step before Lockhart reeled him in again, throwing an arm around his shoulders and pressing him tightly to his side.  
  
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet, and when he got it, pressed his free hand to his heart and lowered his voice modestly. “What an extraordinary moment this is! Truly, I am humbled - and it is the perfect opportunity for me to make an announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!” He gave his captive a squeeze. “When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blott’s today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography - which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge-” The crowd applauded again.  
  
    “He had no idea,” Lockhart continued, lowering his eyes and giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose. He paused, then looked up again, face bright with excitement. “No idea, ladies and gentlemen, that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me.” Hermione looked beside herself, whereas Ron and Dudley wore such comical looks of disgust that Harry almost snorted aloud. “I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”  
  
    The crowed cheered and clapped as Harry was suddenly released. Someone turned him round, and he found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he finally managed to slip over to the edge of the room where Ginny stood next to her new cauldron. She watched him a little dubiously, and he tipped the books into her cauldron when he reached her.  
  
    “Here,” he mumbled, “you have these, Ginny, I’ll buy my own-”  
  
    “Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?”  
  
    Of course it was Malfoy. Harry straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose, then turned to find himself face to face with the sneering blond. There was no trace of the strange hesitance he’d worn earlier, and Harry wondered if he’d imagined it. “Famous Harry Potter,” he said. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”  
  
    “Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny loudly, glaring at Malfoy. “Just because you’re jealous-”  
  
    Splotches of red appeared on Malfoy’s pale face, but he drawled, “Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!”  
  
    Ginny went scarlet as Ron, Hermione, and Dudley fought their way over, trying not to drop the stacks of Lockhart books they held. “Oh,”said Ron when they arrived, “it’s you.” He looked at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here.”  
  
    “Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” retorted Malfoy, but it was a little half-hearted, and Harry barely had time to wonder at it before Mr. Weasley turned up with the twins.  
  
    “Ron!” he said, huffing a little with exertion. “What are you lot still doing inside, it’s too crowded-”  
  
    “Well, well, well - Arthur Weasley.” Harry, looking at Malfoy, was the only one to see his shoulders hunch when his father stepped up behind him. A pale hand rested on his shoulder, and Malfoy immediately straightened, assuming a haughty look. He refused to meet Harry’s eyes, and instead sneered at Ginny, who eyed him with disdain.  
  
    “Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, coldly polite in the face of the elder Malfoy’s sneer.  
  
    “Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy, shaking his head gently. “All those raids - I do hope they’re paying you overtime.” His eye swept over the group, and caught on Ginny’s cauldron. He reached in and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.  
  
    “Obviously not,” he said, and tutted. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”  
  
  
    Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny, but Dudley wasn’t paying attention to that. He was watching Lucius Malfoy’s hands.  
  
    The elder Malfoy hadn’t picked up Ginny’s book by accident, or on a whim. Dudley, who had grown up with a kleptomaniac friend named Piers, knew a performance when he saw one, and while he wasn’t sure what it was, he knew that Malfoy had put something inside the book when he’d grabbed it.  
  
    So when Mr. Weasley lunged, Dudley took advantage of the uproar to grab the book out of Malfoy’s hands. Amidst cries of “Get him, Dad!” from one or other of the twins and the shouting of the crowd, which was knocking over shelves as it tried to get out of the way of the brawl, Dudley, unnoticed, opened the book.  
  
    There, tucked in among the pages, was another, smaller book. It was thin, with a shabby black cover, which had a year stamped on it that told him it was fifty years old. Puzzled, Dudley slipped it into his pocket and closed the Transfiguration book before returning it to Ginny’s cauldron.  
  
    “Come on, let’s get outside before we get trampled,” he shouted to the others, and in quick order, they’d gotten themselves, Ginny, and the cauldron safely out of the shop. Mrs. Weasley hovered in the door, horrified, and the Grangers looked like they desperately wanted to call the police.  
  
    And then, louder than all - “Break it up, there, gents, break it up!”  
  
    It was Hagrid. Dudley watched admiringly as he waded into the crowd, and though he couldn’t see through, he heard the noise levels decrease as Malfoy and Mr. Weasley were separated. A moment later, Malfoy, Draco in tow, swept out of the shop. He looked significantly disheveled, and he was sporting what would later blossom into a lovely black eye.  
  
    Hagrid waded back out, practically carrying Mr. Weasley, and set him down gently beside his wife. “- ignored him, Arthur,” he was saying as Mr. Weasley straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that - no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ ter - bad blood, that’s what it is - come on now - let’s get outta here.”  
  
    “Thank you, Hagrid,” Mrs. Weasley murmured, patting his arm, then turned on her husband as they joined the little group out on the street. “And you! A fine example to set for your children! Brawling in public! What Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought -”  
  
    “He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his report - said it was all publicity -”  
  
    There were one or two more stops to make, but the group didn’t linger, and they were still subdued when they left Hagrid and returned to the Leaky Cauldron. They said goodbye to the Grangers, and Hermione gave the boys and Ginny warm hugs before they left. Mr. Weasley started to ask them how bus stops worked, but at the look Mrs. Weasley gave him, stopped in favor of giving Mr. Granger’s hand one final friendly shake.  
  
    Dudley took a handful of Floo powder, and was a little amused to see Harry take off his glasses before he did the same.  
  
  
    Neville and Hannah weren’t able to make it out to the Burrow for a visit after all, but Dudley and Harry spent a lot of time with the Weasleys, both at the Burrow and down in the village, and the days seemed to fly by. And then it was the last day of the month, and the house was a flurry of packing and shouting about missing socks.  
  
    Mrs. Weasley took Dudley aside late in the afternoon to tell him his mother wouldn’t be able to meet them at the station. “She couldn’t get the morning off,” she said regretfully. “The poor dear. But she said to give you her love, and to tell you to write her.”  
  
    “I will,” said Dudley, not surprised by the news. “You and Mrs. Granger will visit her sometimes, won’t you? I don’t want her to get lonely.”  
  
    “Never you fear,” said Mrs. Weasley fondly. “We’ll keep her spirits up.”  
  
    Dudley smiled at her, and then a thought struck him. “Er, Mrs. Weasley. About that house elf - what if he tries to keep us off the platform?” It was something that had been naggin at him off and on since they’d arrived. “Is there any other way to get to Hogwarts if that happens?”  
  
    “Not directly, unless Dumbledore lets us Floo into the castle, but we can Floo in to Hogsmeade, and it’s only a short trip up to the castle from there. I’ll talk to Arthur about it tonight,” she promised.  
  
    Dinner that night was a simple affair, and breakfast the next morning was a blur. There was a great deal of effort to get everything into the blue Ford Anglia Mr. Weasley trotted out, and then everyone piled in, and Dudley, squashed between the twins and Percy, fell asleep despite the elbows in his side.  
  
    They shook him awake when they arrived, and then it was a mad dash across the station and onto the platform, where they met the Grangers, and it wasn’t until Dudley and Hermione collapsed in a compartment on the train, panting, that they realized they were missing someone. Or, rather, two someones.  
  
    “Oh, no,” Dudley groaned, but the train was already moving. He stared helplessly at the station as it rolled past, then slumped on one of the seats.  
  
    “Where are they?” Hermione asked, a little breathless, her brow furrowed with worry. Her thick curly hair, which had been twisted back into a ponytail, was already working itself free.  
  
    Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Dudley said, “I think they might’ve got locked out of the platform.” And he explained the Dobby situation to Hermione for the first time; they’d decided to wait to tell her in person, in case the elf started intercepting letters again.  
  
    “Ah,” said a different voice when he’d finished. “That does make things a little clearer.”  
  
    His head whipped up in shock, and Dudley was surprised to see that the speaker was familiar. It was the woman from Thisseldon, the one with the green glasses who’d stopped him and Harry in the hallway. She placed a ribbon in her book to mark her place, then set it gently aside and peered at him with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve no need to worry - Mr. and Mrs. Weasley will get Harry and - Ron? - safely to Hogwarts. They’re very competent people.”  
  
    She said it so confidently that Dudley felt his worry start to ebb in spite of himself. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong. Harry’s a bit of a trouble magnet,” he admitted, and Hermione snorted.  
  
    “I’ve heard,” the woman said wryly, then extended her hand. “Callidora Bethwick. I’m the new Magical Theory professor.”  
  
    Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as Dudley shook her hand. “Dudley Dursley. What happened to Professor Saowaluk?”  
  
    “She’s gone to the Americas,” Professor Bethwick explained, offering her hand to Hermione, who shook it with some awe. “She wants to be near her daughter and her new grandchildren.”  
  
    “Hermione Granger,” Hermione squeaked, then, “Are you _the_ Callidora Bethwick? The spell inventor?”  
  
    Bethwick looked at her, and her lips quirked up in a smile. “I’m afraid so.”  
  
    “I loved your essay on magical linguistics,” Hermione breathed.  
  
    The door slid open, admitting Neville and Hannah. “Hullo!” Hannah said brightly, then frowned. “Where’re Ron and Harry?”  
  
    Dudley explained the situation as they sat down, and then the door opened again and let in Ginny. She was accompanied by two other first years - a girl with pale blond hair and a somewhat vague disposition and a small, mousey-haired boy with a camera.  
  
    “This is Luna and Colin,” Ginny said sheepishly. “Can we sit with you? Where’s Ron?”  
  
    After some rearranging, they settled in, and Bethwick opened the carpet bag at her feet and pulled out a deck of cards.  
  
    “Exploding Snap?” she offered. “Loser buys a round of sweets off the trolley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Sorry it's taken so long to update, things have been, well. Hectic, to put it gently.
> 
> In the meantime, here is a drawing of [Callidora](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/post/94874546531), so you can better visualize her! Her wand is 16", apple wood, with a unicorn hair core.
> 
> (Incidentally, Hannah's is 6", oak, with dragon heartstring.)


	4. Arrival

**CHAPTER FOUR**

  
  
  
    Percy disappeared through the brick wall, Harry hot on his heels, and there was a loud CLANG as cart met brick. The impact shot the cart back into Harry, knocking him flat, and Hedwig’s cage clattered to the floor. She screeched loudly, drawing the attention of several passers-by, until Ron scooped up the slowly rolling cage and held it carefully at arm’s length.  
  
    “All right, Harry?” asked Mr. Weasley, helping him up.  
  
    “Yeah,” said Harry, a little breathless. “What happened?”  
  
    Ron sidled up to the barrier and cautiously put his hand to it. “It’s solid!” he cried. “Dad, we’ve been locked out!”  
  
    “Can’t be, there’s still five minutes til- ah.” Mr. Weasley’s hand rested on the brick opposite his son’s, and he prodded at the barrier for a few moments more before saying, “We thought this might happen. Well - not to worry. Let’s wait for Molly; once she gets back, we’ll go sort this out.”  
  
    A few minutes later, she stepped through, still looking a little frazzled, but she was unsurprised to find them still there. “I thought so,” she sighed, then gathered the three of them and led the way back to the car. “Dudley suggested it yesterday,” she admitted. “He was worried about the elf - and rightly so, looks like. We’ll just pop over to the Leaky and send you through that way.”  
  
    Harry, who had spent the last five minutes trying to figure out how he was going to explain himself to Aunt Petunia, felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders at the realization he would still be going to Hogwarts. He shot a glance at Ron, who, though pale beneath his freckles, looked just as relieved.  
  
    Mr. Weasley drove carefully, chatting serenely with Mrs. Weasley, who was knitting socks in the passenger seat, the radio quietly playing a Wizarding rock station in the background. There was some traffic, but they reached the Leaky Cauldron in good time, and Mr. Weasley parallel parked in front of it with only a little crookedness.  
  
    “There!” he said, proudly, as he got out the boys’ trunks and Hedwig’s cage. “Not bad for a Wizard, hey?”  
  
    “Very nice, Arthur,” said Molly indulgently, and led them into the pub.  
  
    It was dark as ever, but there were fewer people than usual; only two wizards were in, and one of them was asleep. The other was sitting at the bar, a bowl of oatmeal and a book spread out in front of him. At his elbow was an empty teacup, and as the group approached, Tom emerged from the back to take it.  
  
    “Good morning, Tom,” said Mrs. Weasley, and he smiled at her.  
  
    “Good morning!” he called, and then spied the boys. “Missed the train, lads?”  
  
    Harry and Ron nodded, a bit glumly, and he chuckled. “You’ll be wanting the fireplace then,” he said to Mrs. Weasley. “Haven’t had any calls this morning, so it should be clean of soot.”  
  
    As they passed the bar, Harry craned his neck for a better look at the man sitting there, and before he could help himself, blurted, “Mr. Lupin!”  
  
    It startled the man just as much as it startled Harry, and before either of them could quite recover, Mr. Weasley had turned and was beaming.  
  
    “Remus!” he cried, and there was a great flurry of handshaking and, on Mrs. Weasley’s part, a bear hug. Harry grinned at the slightly dazed look Mr. Lupin wore, and the man caught his eye and winked.  
  
    “Good to see you, Molly,” he said warmly, patting her shoulder as they parted. “How’ve you been? Ron’s gotten big, hasn’t he?”  
  
    “He’ll be tall,” Mrs. Weasley said proudly, looking at the boy in question, who ducked his head, ears reddening as Harry elbowed him playfully. “And you met Harry, didn’t you?”  
  
    Mr. Lupin’s face softened. “Yes, I did, though we didn’t speak much,” he admitted, and turned to him. “It’s good to see you again - until the other day, I hadn’t seen you since you were a baby.”  
  
    There was a brief moment where Harry didn’t register quite what that meant - then his jaw dropped. “You knew my parents?”  
  
    “Two of my dearest friends,” Lupin said, and began to pat his pockets, looking for something. He finally succeeded, and drew out a photograph from a battered wallet. He offered it to Harry, who took it carefully.  
  
    It was, curiously, a Muggle photograph. There were faces Harry was familiar with by now - his parents, of course, and then a boy who could only be Mr. Lupin, and a grinning boy with dark hair, and a small, pudgy blond boy. They were all crowded together in front of a Muggle cinema, making goofy faces at the camera.  
  
    Harry was so engrossed by the picture that he nearly didn’t hear Mrs. Weasley murmur, “Is it wise to show him a photo with - with _that man_ in it?”  
  
    He carefully glanced up through his lashes, pretending he wasn’t listening, and was in time to see Mr. Lupin seem to shrink in on himself a little. “I can’t see any harm in it, Molly,” he replied quietly, “He’s safely in Azkaban, after all.”  
  
    Mrs. Weasley made a skeptical sort of noise, then said, aloud, “We had really better be going, though.”  
  
    “Of course,” said Mr. Lupin. Harry reluctantly lifted his head and offered the photograph back. Lupin smiled at him and shook his head. “You keep it,” he said gently. “I’ve got more. And - if you like, you can write me, and I’ll tell you some of their adventures.”  
  
     _Adventures_. Harry had heard, by now, about how brave his parents were, how noble, but something about the way Mr. Lupin said adventures, with a small quirk of his mouth, suggested that there was mischief in the Potters’ past. At that moment, Harry was tempted to forget all about Hogwarts and ask Mr. Lupin to tell him everything, right then and there. But he didn’t, and said only, “That would be great!”  
  
    Lupin’s face lit up a little, though he hid it well, and he scribbled down an address for Harry to write him at. Then he ruffled Harry’s hair, as if he couldn’t help himself. He looked about to apologize after, but Harry grinned to show he didn’t mind, and then the adults said goodbye to each other.  
  
    “A sweet man,” Mrs. Weasley murmured as Harry tucked the address into his pocket. “He looks too thin, Arthur - we should invite him over to dinner sometime.”  
  
    “He’s kind of weird,” said Ron under his breath to Harry. “Did you see that book? Is that what Hermione’s going to be when she grows up?”  
  
    Harry snorted. “Probably,” he said amiably. “I expect she’d forget to eat, too, and we’d have to drag her out for lunch.”  
  
    Ron affected a high-pitched voice, saying, “‘I couldn’t _possibly_ , there’s too many _big words_ to memorize, and didn’t you know I’m on an all-book diet? _Honestly_.’” And he tossed his head, exaggerating the movement Hermione sometimes did when she was particularly annoyed.  
  
    They stepped into the back room, where Tom had got a fire going, and he offered the Floo powder to Mr. Weasley, who was closest. “Cheers, Tom,” he said, then threw a pinch on the fire and stuck his head through.  
  
    Almost immediately, there was an enormous _BANG!_ , and he tumbled backwards. “Arthur!” Mrs. Weasley cried, hurrying to his side. As she did, a wispy head emerged from the fireplace. It looked like a bored wizard in a cheap suit and over-large glasses.  
  
    “Sir or Madam,” it said in a dull, booming monotone, “we regret to inform you that the Floo network has been shut down for the day. Repairs are expected to take until 9 o’clock tomorrow morning. We apologize for the inconvenience, and suggest Wilbur Morpington’s Portkey service as an affordable alternative.”  
  
    The head gently disintegrated, and the elder Weasleys shared a worried glance. “Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley slowly, “is this what it was like when the house elf locked down the Thisseldon Floo?”  
  
    “Er, no,” Harry said. “That one just gave us a locked out error, the one of the witch with the mole on her eyelid.” The witch in question was pretty, plump, and very professionally upbeat, but her mole was charmed to change colors and shapes, and when she blinked towards the end it changed into a perfect miniature of a dragon, and that was enough to put her firmly in Harry’s good books. “Could a house elf really shut down the whole network?”  
  
    “I hope so,” said Mr. Weasley grimly, getting to his feet. “Because if it’s a witch or wizard, then we’re in big trouble.”  
  
  
    It was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would side-along apparate the boys to Hogsmeade, as any other way would simply take too long. School trunks were shrunk down to pocket size, as was Hedwig’s cage - the owl herself was released to fly to Hogwarts on her own. Then, that done, Harry found himself pulled close to Mrs. Weasley. Hastily, he put his glasses in his pocket.  
  
    “Hold on tightly, dear,” she said. “It’s not going to be pleasant, your first time apparating.”  
  
    Harry barely had time to nod before the world shifted. He felt her arm start to twist away and clamped down tightly, heart suddenly in his throat. Everything went black, and there was a great pressure on him from all sides. He wasn’t sure he was holding onto Mrs. Weasley anymore, but he didn’t dare move. It was hard to breathe, and getting harder, as if there were iron bands tightening around his chest. His eyeballs felt like they were being forced back into his head, and just as everything was getting unbearable, he toppled onto soft green grass, the world flooding with light.  
  
    Nearby, there was a distorted pop, followed by the sound of retching. “Easy, Ron,” he heard Mr. Weasley murmur.  
  
    Face mushed into the grass, Harry spent what felt like years just laying there wishing the world would stop spinning a bit. A warm hand settling on his shoulder brought him out of it, enough to lift his head to investigate, and Mrs. Weasley said, “All right, dear? We’re resting a moment, so take all the time you need.”  
  
    Harry nodded once, and put his woozy head back on the warm ground.  
  
  
    The second leg of the trip was not quite so harrowing, now that he knew what to expect, though it was just as uncomfortable. This time, he and Ron both managed to land on their feet, and neither threw up, which was good, because this time they appeared on the edge of a small village.  
  
    “Here we are,” said Mr. Weasley. “Hogsmeade. We’ll take you two up to the castle, I expect Hagrid will meet us at the gates when we trigger the wards. But first, I think, lunch.”  
  
    Lunch was sandwiches and chips and cherry soda at the Three Broomsticks pub, served by a cheerful witch named Madam Rosmerta. She knew the Weasleys from their school days, and chatted briefly with them before going to check on the other patrons.  
  
    The boys picked at their food at first, but their appetite soon returned, and by the end of lunch, they felt much better. Harry couldn’t help but notice, however, that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were still worried, and before they left, Mrs. Weasley went to “say goodbye to Rosmerta, want to make sure she knows the Floo’s down.”  
  
    “We’ll wait outside, Molly,” her husband promised, and ushered Harry and Ron through the door. A few minutes later, there was a distant _BANG!_ from inside, and Mr. Weasley, though unsurprised, looked a little grim.  
  
  
    After, it was a short climb to the train station, where they were greeted by Hagrid, who’d come out early to do some last minute trimming on the hedges.  
  
    “Good afternoon!” he called, surprised. “What’re yeh doin’ here?”  
  
    “Afternoon, Hagrid,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling at him. “The boys got locked out of the platform, and the Floo network is down, so we apparated up here.”  
  
    Hagrid hummed thoughtfully. “Tha’s odd,” he said. “Th’ castle network still works.” He set his shears aside, and led them over to one of the waiting carriages. “I’d go straight ter Dumbledore,” he suggested as they got in. “An’ don’ worry about th’ carriage, it’ll come righ’ back.”  
  
    “Thank you,” Mrs. Weasley said warmly, and the boys echoed it, waving at Hagrid as the door shut. He waved back, then returned to his hedges.  
  
    The carriage ride was quiet, and a little tense, and seemed to go on for ages. Harry and Ron tried not to fidget, but slowly, they caught each other’s eye, and grinned. _Won’t the others be jealous?_ Ron’s delighted expression seemed to say.  
  
     _Imagine the looks on their faces,_ Harry tried to say back, _when they get in and we’re already at the table!_  
  
    They had to quickly look away from each other so they wouldn’t start laughing.  
  
    At last, the carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of the castle, and they all climbed out, ascending the steps to the doors. The carriage rumbled away, wheels crunching on the gravel, as the doors opened for them. Mr. Weasley led the way in, and they went straight to Dumbledore’s office.  
  
    “I’ll take them up to Minerva,” said Mrs. Weasley, and her husband kissed her cheek before she led the boys away. They followed excitedly, impressed with how effortlessly she still navigated the castle, and they arrived at Professor McGonagall’s office in short order.  
  
    Mrs. Weasley tapped politely but firmly on the door, and a few moments later, Professor McGonagall answered, hair a little flyaway, a dark green dressing gown on. Her wand was clutched almost desperately in a white-knuckled hand, and her eyes were narrowed in irritation. “Sybil, if this is another - oh!” She stopped and stared, surprised, then absently flicked her wand and her hair tidied itself. “Molly. Is something wrong?”  
  
    “We had some trouble getting everyone onto the platform this morning,” said Mrs. Weasley blithely. “I was hoping I might get the boys up to their dorm before telling you everything. Arthur is already seeing Dumbledore.”  
  
    McGonagall’s dressing gown and slippers had, by now, transformed themselves into sensible black robes and matching shoes, and she stepped out into the hallway with them. “Of course,” she said. “Did you Floo in?”  
  
    “The network’s down, Professor,” said Ron, eager to participate in this strange adult conversation. “We apparated in!”  
  
    “Oh, dear,” said McGonagall wryly. “And how did you like that?”  
  
    Ron looked a little sheepish and muttered, “I didn’t, really.”  
  
    She glanced at Harry, who shook his head almost violently. “Me neither.”  
  
    “Well, it is something of an acquired taste,” the professor said, and they stopped in front of the portrait hole that led to the Gryffindor common room. The lady in the portrait was napping, snoring gently, and McGonagall tapped the frame with her wand to wake her up. “Allium,” she said, and the lady uttered a disgruntled, sleepy noise before opening the door.  
  
    The Gryffindor common room was exactly as it always was, if a bit cleaner than Ron and Harry remembered, and they took out their trunks so the adults could un-shrink them. Professor McGonagall kindly cast a feather-light charm on them so they could get the things up to the dormitory on their own, then said, “I expect you boys to be on your best behavior, and get to the Great Hall a little early tonight. That means no wandering about the castle.”  
  
    Mrs. Weasley kissed them both and said goodbye, and then Ron and Harry were left to their own devices in the empty common room. The portrait slid gently shut behind the adults, and Ron turned to look at his best friend.  
  
    “D’you still have your cloak?” he asked. Harry grinned.  
  
  
    As creepy as Hogwarts was at night, it was probably ten times creepier when it was mid-afternoon and the halls were empty. Ron, walking single file behind Harry and doing his best not to step on the cloak, thought that even the ghosts would be pleasant company for once.  
  
    But they never showed, and as the two boys crept through the halls, sticking to the shadows, they occasionally noticed flickers of movement. As soon as they turned, of course, whatever it was had gone, and so by the time they reached the Great Hall, they were both jumpy and regretting the whole venture. Then they peeped in through the doors, and made a discovery.  
  
    The Great Hall was full to the brim with house elves.  
  
    At first glance, it looked like utter chaos - but to Ron, who had grown up with chaos, it was simplicity itself to see that the elves were, in fact, operating in a very orderly fashion. They were divided into two main sections that he could see; decorating and cleaning. These were further divided into three sub-sections; floors, walls, and ceiling. There were sections for windows, tables, and candles, and they moved in strange, twisting patterns as they worked. Every elf had its place, and more impressively, every elf’s space included the rest of the elves’ space. To Ron’s eye, it was like watching a dance, albeit one with spectacularly complex choreography. The elves worked steadily from one end of the hall to the other, cleaning elves followed by decorating elves, like a wave of nimble fingers bringing order and light to the room.  
  
    Ron felt like he could watch forever, only now someone was tugging at his sleeve. “Leave off, Harry,” he muttered.  
  
    “What?”  
  
    “Get off my arm already.”  
  
    “I’m not touching it.”  
  
    As one, they looked for the culprit, and found themselves staring down at floppy ears. They were thrust through holes in an old, flowery potholder, and the stiffness of the fabric caused them to stand straight up, a little like a donkey’s. The mushy creature below was plump and cheerful, oddly reminiscent of the Fat Friar, and the house elf wore, as a sort of tunic, a dented metal bucket with holes for arm and head. Ron wondered how he didn’t cut himself on it until a closer look showed him that the edges had been ground smooth and padded with what looked like a bit of quilt.  
  
    “Darvy, sirs, at your service!” he squeaked. “Timekeeper of the kitchen elves, sirs!” He touched a chubby finger to the edge of his potholder. “I’ve been asked by the Head Elf to ask you to please come away from the doors, for your own safety!”  
  
    “Sure,” said Harry, a little quicker to react than Ron, and they obligingly stepped away. Darvy shut the doors with a gentle wiggle of his little finger, then turned to the boys.  
  
    “Would sirs like tea?” he asked.  
  
  
    And that was how they found themselves back in the Gryffindor common room, sipping tea and nibbling biscuits, as Darvy chatted gaily about anything and everything that came into his mind. As Darvy paused for a sip of his own tea, Harry said, “Do you know an elf named Dobby, by any chance?”  
  
    Darvy looked up at him, then slowly lowered his cup, resting it uncertainly on its saucer. It looked comically huge in his spindly little hands, and it rattled as he set it down. “Dobby, sirs? Not the Malfoy elf?”  
  
    “Malfoy!” cried Ron. “We should have known! Bet you it was all his idea, Harry.”  
  
    Anger surged up in Harry. _And to think,_ he thought, a little viciously, _that I might’ve felt sorry for him!_ “I’ll just bet,” he agreed tightly.  
  
    “We’ll have to get him back,” Ron said, staring intently at nothing as ideas raced through his head. “What if-”  
  
    “Sirs,” said Darvy gently, and they both looked at him in surprise. For a moment, they had forgotten he was there. “Sirs, begging your pardon, what has Dobby done?”  
  
    In the face of this question, both boys found themselves a little reluctant to answer. Then Harry remembered his anger, and said, “He stopped my mail all summer, destroyed my neighbor’s apartment to try and get me in trouble, and he stopped the barrier at Platform 9 3/4 to keep me off the train!”  
  
    The elf in front of him looked thoughtful. “And you saw him?”  
  
    Harry nodded. “When he destroyed the apartment, he showed up and told me not to come back to Hogwarts.”  
  
    “Did he say why?”  
  
    At this, Harry hesitated. “Er... he said it was too dangerous to come back to Hogwarts.” Darvy gave him a look that was awfully sarcastic for an elf wearing a potholder on his head, and Harry looked away, feeling sheepish.  
  
    “Sirs,” he said patiently, “why don’t you tell me the whole story?”  
  
  
    Hannah was the first to notice.  
  
    After three games of Exploding Snap, Professor Bethwick had to open the window, because their compartment had so filled with smoke that it was getting difficult to breathe. Immediately, the smell of rain hit them, and shortly after, drops of water began to hit the glass. Hannah squinted at the rain through the dissipating smoke, and wrinkled her nose.  
  
    “Second years don’t have to take the boats, right?” she asked the room at large, which was significantly emptier than it had been; Ginny, Luna, and Colin had fled the smoke in search of the sweets trolley about ten minutes prior, and hadn’t returned.  
  
    “No,” said Bethwick, smiling a little. “You’ll ride in carriages from now on. The boats are just for first years - though I must confess I was always a little jealous of that.”  
  
    “I did like the boats,” said Neville wistfully, and they all took a moment to remember their spectacular first view of Hogwarts.  
  
    “I expect the rain might ruin it a bit,” Hermione said. “Poor first years!”  
  
    “It should let up by the time we arrive,” said the professor. “But even if it doesn’t, Hogwarts by carriage is just as lovely.”  
  
    Dudley spoke up for the first time in a long while and said, “And besides, Hermione, think how nice the Great Hall is when it rains.”  
  
    “Yes,” Hermione agreed, “but it’s just not the same!”  
  
    Hannah propped her hand on her chin and listened idly to the conversation for a while. Privately, she thought rather that no matter what the weather was like, the first years would never forget their first sight of the castle, even if it was mostly hidden by rain. She turned to ask Professor Bethwick’s opinion of Quidditch, but the words dried up in her mouth and disappeared.  
  
    Professor Bethwick, had the train not been moving, would have been sitting absolutely still. She swayed gently in place, eyes distant, face terribly blank. Hannah waited a few seconds. Then a few more. Two minutes passed, and just as she opened her mouth to say something, anything, Bethwick blinked.  
  
    She blinked again, then sat up straight, brushing hair out of her face, and turned to the conversation, which had changed to a heated discussion of literature, and jumped in with a casual, “I really wouldn’t recommend Fifi LaFolle, she’s all romance and no plot.”  
  
    Dudley grimaced, and Hermione wrinkled her nose, and Neville looked quietly horrified. It was almost funny enough to make Hannah forget about Professor Bethwick’s strange behavior.  
  
    Almost. But somehow, she knew, it wasn’t something she ought to bring up, and so she said, loudly, “Professor, what do you think of Quidditch?”  
  
    The woman looked over at her and smiled, then said, “I quite like it. The Holyhead Harpies are excellent, but personally, the Giza Griffons are my favorite.” With some pride, she added, “My cousin Zubaida is the Keeper.”  
  
    Hannah’s jaw dropped. “Zubaida? Not- _Zubaida Nejem_ is your _cousin_?”  
  
    “Heresy,” said Neville around a mouthful of toffee. “And you, being English. Puddlemere United is where it’s at.”  
  
    “Just wait for the World Cup,” said Bethwick blithely. “We shall stomp you into the ground.”  
  
  
    After Darvy left them to their own devices, Harry and Ron had settled down in the good armchairs near the empty hearth to have a think. They absently played a game of chess, ignoring the squawks of the pieces, which Ron still won. They neither of them spoke for ages, before, finally, Harry said, “I wonder if it’s to do with the Floo network.”  
  
    “Maybe,” said Ron as he arranged the board for a new game. “But that might just be an accident. It’s happened before, when I was little.”  
  
    They fell into silence for a few moments as they both considered this. “One thing’s for sure,” Harry said at last, nudging one of his pieces forward. “Lucius Malfoy is part of the problem. But Draco isn’t.”  
  
    “He’s still a prat, though,” said Ron, with some degree of satisfaction.  
  
    “Excuse me!” called an unfamiliar voice, and the boys jumped in alarm. The culprit was a small, thin portrait that hung beside the mantle, and it was so often empty that the eye tended to gloss over it entirely. Now, however, it contained a tiny lady in red. She winked at them. “You’d better get down the Great Hall, lads, the train’s arrived.”  
  
    Harry and Ron stared at her, then leapt to their feet and stared at each other a moment, and quick as lightning dashed upstairs to pull on their robes over their clothing. They stumbled through the portrait hole, playfully shoving each other out of the way, then hurried downstairs as fast as they could, leaping trick steps and dodging Peeves, who was busy redecorating a hallway with what looked like toothpaste.  
  
    They skidded into the Great Hall, out of breath, just as the teachers entered it through another door. The two groups stopped and stared at each other for a few moments until Dumbledore coughed gently, smiled at the boys, and led the teachers up to the high table. There was some furious whispering as they went, and over it came Dumbledore’s soothing rumble, assuring his staff that everything was fine. Harry and Ron scuttled to their table and, with not a little smugness, claimed the best seats for themselves. As Ron fidgeted with his robes, which he’d put on inside-out, Harry eyed the high table with some puzzlement.  
  
    There were two empty seats. One, he knew, belonged to Lockhart, and Harry hoped somewhat desperately that the gaudy man had had to back out. He was sorely disappointed a few moments later when he trotted cheerily into the hall and joined his peers. Resolving to ignore him, he stared hard at the empty seat.  
  
    “Ron, who’s missing?” he murmured.  
  
    The redhead looked up from the stray thread he was tugging on, and frowned. “Er, Magic Theory teacher, innit? Professor - er-”  
  
    “Saowaluk,” a voice supplied helpfully from behind them.  
  
    “Right! Thanks-” said Ron, then froze. As one, he and Harry turned to look at the speaker.  
  
    “Hang on,” Harry blurted. “You’re the witch from Thisseldon! You stopped us in the hall.”  
  
    The tall woman in charcoal robes smiled down at him. “Callidora Bethwick,” she said. “Your new Magical Theory professor - and neighbor, as it turns out. I wanted to make sure you two were all right, your friends have been worried about you.”  
  
    Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Harry looked sheepishly away. “Er, yeah,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley side-along apparated us.”  
  
    “No Floo?” Professor Bethwick’s voice was heavy with curiosity, and Harry glanced up in time to see her face grow troubled as Ron spoke up.  
  
    “Network’s been down all day,” the redhead confided, pleased once again to be the bearer of this important news.  
  
    “Why,” said Harry, “exactly, has it got everyone so worked up? Isn’t it just an- an error or something?”  
  
    The professor considered him for a moment; then her eyes flicked up to the head table. “Because it may not be. The Floo network is very complex -” She stopped, and shook her head. “However, now is not the time for this discussion. Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, it’s a pleasure to meet the both of you at last.” And, flashing a smirk at them, she made for the high table.  
  
    There was no time to think about her words; no sooner had she taken her seat than the doors opened and students began piling in, laughing and chatting as they headed to their respective tables. Harry craned his neck to find his friends, and waved enthusiastically when he spotted them. Hannah was the first to see, and jumped up and down in excitement before dragging the others over.  
  
    “Harry! Ron!” she cried, and hugged them both. “I was half worried you wouldn’t be here!”  
  
    “Only half?” Ron asked, in mock outrage.  
  
    Hermione sat next to Harry and said loftily, “Yes, we realized how lovely and quiet it is without you and had a very pleasant trip.” At their slightly worried scowls, she grinned fondly at them, and they relaxed.  
  
    The Hufflepuffs were soon herded away by the rest of their house, and Harry looked up at the high table. Lockhart was chatting animatedly at Snape, who was clenching and unclenching his hands as if he wanted to strangle the man beside him, and McGonagall, looking far too amused, excused herself to go meet the first years. At the other end of the table, Bethwick was talking to Professor Flitwick, who seemed to know her.  
  
    Hermione, following his gaze, said, “Dudley said she’s your neighbor.”  
  
    “Yeah,” Harry said, brow furrowing. “She lives on the floor above us. We met her the day Dobby came and destroyed Giulia’s apartment.”  
  
    Before they could say anything more, a hush fell over the hall, and McGonagall led in a line of tiny, frightened first years. Harry, spotting Ginny, caught her eye and waved, and she waved shyly back, brightening as she realized that Harry was near Hermione and the other Weasleys, who all waved as well.  
  
    Then the sorting hat opened its mouth and began to sing.  
  
  
    Dudley, sitting at the far end of the Hufflepuff table, near the wall, was not paying attention to the hat’s song. He had remembered, early that morning, to take the strange little book from his trunk and put it in his pocket, and til now, he’d entirely forgotten about it. He glanced at his housemates and, seeing them occupied, gently pulled the book free and looked at it carefully.  
  
    The shabby little thing was just as he remembered. He turned it over in his hands, once, briefly taking note of the Vauxhall Road address stamped on the back, before deciding that if anything were to happen, then he was probably in the safest possible place, and he eased the cover open. It was almost disappointing, the lack of evil shrieking or cloud of hexes, but he did see the inscription on the first page.  
  
    T. M. Riddle. _Muggleborn, for sure,_ Dudley thought, and turned the page. Despite significant wear and tear, however, he found no more writing. For some reason, that worried him more than the arcane gibberish he’d half expected to find. Frowning, he put the book away just as the hat’s song finished, and brooded over it all throughout the sorting, though he did manage to pay attention for three particular first years.  
  
    “Creevey, Colin” was sorted promptly into Gryffindor, and “Lovegood, Luna” dreamily made her way to the Ravenclaw table not long after. It seemed an age before it was Ginny’s turn, and she was pale and nervous as she finally sat on the stool and put the hat on. Dudley held his breath, and half suspected that the Weasleys were all doing the same, but after a few brief seconds the hat put her in Gryffindor. She made her way to the table, beaming, and graciously allowed the twins to smother her in hugs and ruffle her hair.  
  
    The hat was taken away, and Dumbledore got to his feet, smiling fondly at all of them. “A few words, before we tuck into our dinner,” he said, voice carrying easily through the room. “This year, it is my pleasure to introduce our two newest members of the staff. The first, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart.”  
  
    He gestured to Lockhart, who leapt to his feet, jostling Snape a little in the process, and bowed, grinning, as the hall erupted into applause. There was a large amount of squealing, and he winked at someone that Dudley sincerely hoped was a seventh year. He sat back down as the applause died off, and Dumbledore continued, “The other is our new Magical Theory professor, Callidora Bethwick.”  
  
    Bethwick stood gracefully, and politely inclined her head. She received less applause than Lockhart, but didn’t seem to mind, and smiled at Dudley and the others before resuming her seat. Movement caught Dudley’s eye, then, and he noticed something odd. Lockhart had been leaning forward in his chair to have a look at Bethwick - hadn’t he known she was there? - and was now sitting back with wide, surprised eyes.  
  
    Neville nudged him. “You see that?” he whispered. “Lockhart, I mean. Think they know each other?”  
  
    “Dunno,” Dudley murmured back. “Maybe he’s a fan. Hermione said she was pretty big in spell invention.”  
  
    The other boy hummed thoughtfully, and before they could say any more, the feast had appeared, and the battle to fill their plates before everyone else took all the good bits began. Hannah, wresting the fried potatoes from a fourth year, chatted happily with Susan Bones, updating her on Professor Saowaluk’s absence, and Neville was drawn into a vicious game of rock-paper-scissors with Ernie and Justin.  
  
    Dudley, on the other hand, had noticed his plate was sitting oddly on the table, and lifted it up. Underneath was a neatly folded piece of parchment, which, when he’d carefully opened it, read, in a swooping hand;  
  
           _Monday, after classes_  
 _Ice mice_  
  
    He quickly stuffed the note into his pocket and looked up at the table, where Dumbledore, serenely spreading butter on a thick slice of brown bread, happened to glance up. The headmaster winked, candlelight reflecting off his half-moon spectacles and making his eyes more twinkly than usual, then returned to his meal. Dudley, despite himself, grinned, and went to battle for the stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Less of a wait this time, thank goodness.
> 
> Originally this chapter was meant to go beyond the feast and on to the first week or so of classes, but it turned out longer than I thought, so I figured I'd just chop it in half to make it more manageable.
> 
> Also, even though Callidora is my own creation, I'm finding it surprisingly hard to get a grip on her personality. However, she is still being stiff and proper, since it's her first time teaching at Hogwarts, so I think that's affecting me, too.
> 
> As always, let me know if there are any spelling errors/inconsistencies!


	5. Springtime for Lockhart

**CHAPTER FIVE**

  
  
  
    “Right! Who can tell me the properties of the mandrake?” asked Professor Sprout. The stout witch, covered head to toe in a liberal amount of earth and bits of leaf, as usual, eyed them all with slightly raised eyebrows. She was, strangely, in high dudgeon this morning, and Harry suspected it was because of Lockhart. More than suspected, really - when the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had arrived at greenhouse three for class, they had been treated to the sight of the immaculate, turquoise-and-gold clad Lockhart. Whatever he’d been pestering Professor Sprout about was a mystery, unfortunately, because he had immediately stopped when he saw them and had instead leapt around prattling about... well. Harry honestly wasn’t sure. He’d been busy ducking behind his friends so he wouldn’t be spotted.  
  
    He was pulled from his thoughts when Hermione’s madly waving arm nearly took out his ear. “Mandrake,” said Hermione, a little breathlessly, “or mandragora, is a powerful restorative. It’s used to restore people who’ve been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”  
  
    “Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Sprout. “The mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is, however, also quite dangerous. Who can tell me why?” She looked expectantly out at all the sleepy faces in front of her, and Harry carefully avoided meeting her eye.  
  
    Hermione’s hand shot into the air again, and Harry leaned away from her slightly. “The cry of the mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said quickly.  
  
    “Precisely. Take another ten points.”  
  
    Across the table, Dudley, who’d been on the verge of falling asleep since they’d sat down, lifted his head and squinted curiously over at his Head of House, interested for the first time. “Professor,” he said, as she crouched to pick up a box, “would a mandrake turn an ani- er- animaggus? from their animal form back to their human one?”  
  
    “Well,” said Sprout thoughtfully, “I believe it should do. I can’t think of any instance off the top of my head where it’s been attempted, but as animagery involves transfiguration, I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.” Seeing that he was satisfied, she continued, “Now, the mandrakes we have are very young.”  
  
    “What’s an animagus?” Hannah whispered to Hermione.  
  
    “Shh!” Hermione replied. “Tell you later.”  
  
    Harry, tuning back in to Professor Sprout, gazed curiously at the row of deep trays everyone was cautiously shuffling up to. They contained a hundred or so tufty little purple-green plants that looked, he thought, a bit like weeds. Certainly Aunt Petunia - or, he supposed, the Aunt Petunia of days past - would never have allowed them near her garden. He wasn’t exactly sure how a plant like that was supposed to cry.  
  
    “Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout, and there was an immediate rush to grab a pair that wasn’t the pink and fluffy one. Harry hid a grin as Dudley appeared to decide that it was much too early for such foolishness and plunked the pink earmuffs onto his head without a care in the world. Then he turned to help Neville, who had grabbed a pair that were slightly too big.  
  
    Harry, who’d ended up with a plaid pair, wrestled them onto his head as the Professor continued, “Make sure your ears are completely covered. When it is safe to remove the earmuffs, I will give you the thumbs up.”  
  
    She waited patiently as they put the earmuffs on, and Harry was astonished to find that they shut out all sound completely. _Magic?_ he wondered, gently tapping the earmuffs with a fingernail to try and produce some sort of noise. Finally, the professor put her own pair of earmuffs and rolled up her sleeves. The entire class seemed to hold its breath as she reached for one of the little plants and firmly pulled it up.  
  
    Harry let out a gasp of surprise that even he didn’t hear.  
  
    Where he’d expected to see roots, there was a small, muddy green baby dangling from the greenery on its head, ugly little face scrunched up in a wail. The leaves of the other mandrakes trembled as if in a breeze, and Harry had the uneasy feeling that they were listening. Professor Sprout, all business, took a large pot from under the table and plunged the mandrake into the dark compost inside it until only the leaves could be seen. She gave the compost around it a gentle pat, then dusted off her hands and gave them the thumbs up.  
  
    “Our mandrakes are only seedlings,” she said briskly, cool as anything, like she’d only been tending a houseplant, “so its cries won’t kill yet. However, it will knock you out for several hours, so make sure your earmuffs are secure - we wouldn’t want you missing your first day back.”  
  
    They were four students to a tray. Dudley, Neville, and Hannah were joined by Susan Bones, who watched nervously as Hannah immediately began poking the leaves of the nearest mandrake. Harry, Hermione, and Ron found themselves joined at their tray by Justin Finch-Fletchley. Harry had never spoken to him except to ask him to pass the butter, but was nevertheless a little baffled when he politely reintroduced himself.  
  
    “Most of us,” he confided in Ron, “half consider you lot honorary Hufflepuffs, since you’re over at the table so much. Cedric has mourned not having Harry for the team loads of times. D’you know if Hannah’s trying out for the team? She hasn’t said.”  
  
    “I think she is, yeah,” said Ron as they began filling the flower pots at their table with compost. “Trying for Chaser, or maybe Keeper.”  
  
    They chatted a little longer, Justin telling them, a little pompously, that he’d been down for Eton. Harry was on the verge of saying something sarcastic when Professor Sprout stopped everyone and gave the command for earmuffs, which Harry gladly obeyed. He made sure they were on tight, and watched with amusement as Dudley fussed over his tablemates.  
  
    As it turned out, Professor Sprout had made potting mandrakes look much easier than it was. The little creatures didn’t like coming out of the earth, but they didn’t seem very keen on going back in, either, and expressed their displeasure with biting and kicking and a tremendous amount of flailing. A particularly large one threw itself around so much it nearly knocked Harry over, and Ron had to help him shove it into the pot. No one else was fairing much better, and by the end of class, everyone was sweaty, aching, covered in dirt, and thoroughly relieved it was over. The class, as one being, hurried back to the castle to get cleaned up, and the friends said a hasty goodbye as they went with their respective Houses.  
  
    The Gryffindors had Transfiguration next, which was always hard, but Harry and Ron seemed to have completely forgotten everything they’d learned, and spent most of the class halfheartedly poking their wands at the beetle they were supposed to turn into a button. Towards the end, Ron managed to get his beetle perfectly round, and Harry turned his a cheery yellow and vanished the legs, and Hermione, of course, had a handful of perfect buttons to show them.  
  
    The three of them made their way to the Great Hall and lingered outside the door to wait for the Hufflepuffs, who turned up in force shortly after, accompanied by the Slytherins and Professor Bethwick. It wasn’t unusual for teachers to accompany the students to a meal after class, but...  
  
    “Is she still teaching them?” Hermione whispered, and as the group drew closer, it became apparent that this was, in fact, the case. Some students weren’t listening, or at least, were pretending not to, but the others were hanging off Bethwick’s every word. To be fair, her voice carried well, and she seemed less like she was lecturing and more like she was having a conversation.  
  
    “-all around you. Cold spots, for example, are seldom caused by ghosts themselves, but by a flow of magic they’ve interrupted. It’s easier to interact with them when you have no physical body. And- ah, we’re here. Any last questions? Yes, Macmillan.”  
  
    “Professor, will there be a test on this?”  
  
    There was scattered laughter, some of it nervous, and Bethwick smiled. “Well, I hadn’t planned on it, but if you insist on giving me ideas...”  
  
    Immediately the students clamored in protest, making her laugh and wave her hands to calm them down. “I have no surprise tests planned at the moment,” she assured them. “You’ll know about the others in plenty of time. Anything else? No? Then to lunch-”  
  
    “Callidora!” shouted a horribly familiar voice, and there was Lockhart, rounding the corner. He was as sparkling and immaculate as ever in his turquoise robes, and he beamed at Professor Bethwick, who wore an expression of polite blankness.  
  
    “Professor Lockhart,” she greeted pleasantly, “Did you need something?” She turned to her class and added, “You all can go to lunch, of course, and I expect each of you to have ideas for a presentation next class.”  
  
    The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs made their way into the Great Hall, most of them looking back over their shoulders curiously. The Gryffindors turned to go with them, but Dudley’s bag slipped off his shoulder and spilt his stuff everywhere. With a groan of annoyance, he knelt to clean it up. Harry waved the others on and crouched to help him. His cousin met his eye, then flicked a glance at the teachers, and Harry was hard put not to grin.  
  
    “It’s so good to see you again, Callidora, and you’re lovely as ever,” Professor Lockhart was saying, all smiles. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’ve ended up here! You always were a deft hand at Magical Theory.”  
  
    Professor Bethwick smiled slightly, looking puzzled. “Thank you - I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”  
  
    Lockhart looked surprised, and said, “Ah, well, yes. We were in the same year, in, ah, the same House.” He brightened. “There was a mishap with grindylows in the third year, if you remember? And then we were partners in Potions the following year.”  
  
    Bethwick’s brow furrowed as she thought, then smoothed, and her face went blank again. This time, however, it lacked the friendliness. “Oh, yes,” she said, with false cheer. “Now I remember you. You’ve certainly come a long way from spelling frogs into my hair and trying to feed me to the giant squid.”  
  
    Lockhart darted a look at Harry and Dudley, who quickly busied themselves picking up stray bits of parchment, before he said, “Now, Callidora, that was just a bit of childish fun! Nothing to get upset about.”  
  
    “Of course,” said Professor Bethwick. “If you’ll excuse me, Professor, we’re missing lunch.”  
  
    He offered her his elbow, but she swept past and flicked her wand at the mess on the floor. Papers, books, and quills zipped neatly back into Dudley’s bag. “Come along, Potter, Dursley,” she said, “and Dursley, you really must fix the strap on that bag.”  
  
    Dudley looked sheepish. “Yes, Professor,” he said, and they followed Bethwick into the Great Hall.  
  
  
    After lunch, which the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors spent apart, the six of them met in the overcast courtyard and sat on the stone steps. Lockhart had gazed at Professor Bethwick all through lunch, as if he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong.  
  
    Dudley told the others what had happened, and as he finished, Neville groaned. “I can’t believe you used the bag trick again,” he said, shaking his head.  
  
    “He’d already done it when we reached class,” Hannah explained to the Gryffindors. “She was talking to Professor Snape outside the room when we got there, and he wanted to know what it was about, so he dropped his bag just inside the door. She was just asking about a potion, turns out.”  
  
    “What kind of potion?” Hermione asked.  
  
    “Something to help her insomnia, I think,” said Dudley, a little uncertainly.  
  
    “What sort of teacher is she, anyway?” Ron said abruptly, and a moment later they saw why - Ginny, Colin, and Luna were approaching.  
  
    “She’s interesting,” said Neville. “Kind of weird, and not as friendly as Professor Saowaluk, maybe, but... she doesn’t talk down to you. At least, not so far.”  
  
    “Professor Bethwick?” Ginny asked, flopping down next to Hermione. Luna settled in beside her, and Colin daringly sat near Harry, who was a little disconcerted by the adoring gaze the other boy was directing at him.  
  
    “Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, when asked. “It’s an honor to meet you, Harry!”  
  
    “Er,” said Harry. “Likewise?”  
  
    The smaller boy looked as if he might pass out from sheer joy, and lifted his camera in shaking fingers. “M-may I have a picture?”  
  
    Harry stared. “Sure?” he said, then added, in a fit of inspiration, “But on one condition.”  
  
    Colin looked a little worried, but bravely said, “Anything!”  
  
    “After this,” Harry told him, “No more of me, okay? Unless you’re taking photos of everybody as a friend.”  
  
    There was a perilous moment where Colin looked ready to explode from happiness, and then he squeaked, “Friend?”  
  
    “Friend,” Harry confirmed, and Hannah, who was the only one paying attention to this exchange, immediately nodded.  
  
    “Tell you what, Colin,” she said, giggling, “go sit next to him, and I’ll take the picture.” Colin, looking over the moon, quickly switched spots with her, handing over his camera.  
  
    “Smile!” Hannah said, grinning, and the flash from the camera nearly blinded them.  
  
  
    They had Lockhart’s class next and it was, of course, a complete disaster.  
  
    The Gryffindor trio made their way to the back, the boys ignoring Hermione’s wistful glances at the front of the room. There was a little chatter as their Housemates and the Ravenclaws settled in, but there was no sign of Lockhart until the last possible minute, which was, of course, when he swanned into the room. He was all pearly teeth and turquoise silk, but something seemed off right from the start.  
  
    Lockhart beamed at all of them, then gestured to the books stacked on their desks. “Me,” he said with a wink. “Gilderoy Lockhart. Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award.” He hesitated for the briefest of moments, before brightly adding, “I didn’t get rid of the, ah, Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”  
  
    Nobody laughed, and he let out an awkward chuckle.  
  
    “Well, I see you’ve all bought my books. I hope you’ve read them, because -” He produced a stack of papers with a flourish. “- I’ve a quiz for you!” A flick of his wand and the papers flew through the room, landing daintily in front of every student. “You’ve - thirty minutes. Starting now!” And he went to his desk and sat down.  
  
    Harry looked dubiously down at his paper and read:  
  
    1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?  
    2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?  
    3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?  
  
    He didn’t bother to read the rest, and shared a disgusted look with Ron. Hermione, on the other hand, was already a third of the way down her paper and was absently chewing on her thumbnail as she scribbled. Rolling his eyes, Harry picked up his quill and started doodling stick figure caricatures of Malfoy and his minions on the back of his quiz. Halfway through a particularly dull-looking Crabbe, he glanced up and noticed Lockhart staring into space, chin propped up on his hand. There was a weird, dreamy expression on the professor’s face, and Harry wondered briefly what that was about before deciding he probably didn’t want to know. He resumed working on his masterpiece, and after some serious deliberation, gave Malfoy fangs.  
  
    Half an hour later, Lockhart leafed absently through the returned quizzes, tutting. Ultimately, he gave Hermione ten points for getting every question right, and miraculously missed seeing Harry’s - by then - rather elaborate drawing. This did not, however, mean that nobody else saw it, because it was on the bottom of the stack and was in clear view the whole time. Seamus and Dean, who sat near the front, were practically strangling themselves trying not to laugh.  
  
    “Now,” said Lockhart at last, setting the quizzes aside. “Be warned! It’s my job to guard you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind. You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this very room.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked conspiratorially. “Not to worry, though! No harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain... calm.”  
  
    Harry, who had been building a tower with his books, found himself leaning round it for a better look. The class watched in quiet excitement as Lockhart pulled a covered cage from behind his desk and set it down on the sturdy old wood. “I must ask you not to scream,” he said in a low voice. “It might provoke them.”  
  
    The cover came off.  
  
  
    “Cornish pixies?” Hannah asked, eying the scratched, ruffled Gryffindors with some concern. “Aren’t those venomous?”  
  
    “I expect we’ll find out soon enough,” Ron growled, stabbing his potatoes. “‘ _Hands on experience_.’”  
  
    Hermione looked faintly embarrassed.  
  
  
    They didn’t have Magical Theory until the following afternoon, and by then, the entire school was buzzing about Professors Lockhart and Bethwick. Those who had a crush on Lockhart were torn between intense jealousy and an inability to understand why Bethwick kept turning him down. Those who weren’t fans of Lockhart were mostly just interested in watching sparks fly. To be fair, the teachers didn’t disappoint. At breakfast, when Bethwick entered the Great Hall to find a waterfall of flowers at her place at the high table, she immediately spelled them to follow Lockhart round in a cloud, and he spent most of the day covered in pollen.  
  
    As it turned out, they had Magical Theory with the Ravenclaws, and the two Houses exchanged many glances on the way up that expressed a fervent hope that this class would not be like the Defense class.  
  
    Professor Bethwick was writing on the chalkboard when they arrived, and she said, without turning to look at them, “Come on in, find a seat. Choose wisely, because you will be sitting in that spot for the rest of the year.”  
  
    In the rush, Harry and Hermione found themselves in the front of the room, with Ron just behind them with Padma. Bethwick waited patiently until the last chair had scraped against the floor, then said, briskly, “Good afternoon, class. In case you needed reminding, my name is Callidora Bethwick.” She gently tapped the chalkboard with a long stick, pointing out where she’d written her name in tidy print. “Today, we’ll briefly discuss the subjects Professor Saowaluk covered last year.”  
  
    At their looks of horror, Bethwick’s lips quirked in a smile. “No quizzes, I promise, but I will ask questions, and I encourage you to do the same. Now, I believe you’ve been over the different types of magic. Who can name the primaries for me? Yes, Miss Granger.”  
  
    “Antiwand and Pro-wand,” said Hermione, textbook-perfect as always.  
  
    “Correct. Care to give us a brief explanation?”  
  
    Hermione took a moment to think about phrasing, then said, “Antiwand is the act of casting without use of a wand, such as accidental magic. Pro-wand is the use of a wand as a focus for one’s magic.”  
  
    “Good. Can anyone name the secondaries? Mr. Corner.”  
  
    “Er, verbal and nonverbal?” he said tentatively, and hastily added, “Verbal casting needs you to say it, and nonverbal, uh, doesn’t.”  
  
    Professor Bethwick gave him a dry look, but said, “Very cut-and-dry, isn’t it? Miss Patil.” She nodded at Padma.  
  
    She hesitated, then said, “Sentient and... Sleeping. The first is active magic, like something you’ve just cast, and the second is something that lies dormant until it’s needed, like a ward.”  
  
    “Correct. And, finally, for the bases - Mr. Thomas.”  
  
    Dean looked a little startled, but said, “Ritual - which is using several items and actions for a large casting - and non-ritual, which is kind of weaker but a lot faster.”  
  
    Bethwick inclined her head. “Well done - each of you take five points. These explanations have, of course, been very simplified, and we will spend some time on them so that you may have a better understanding, and we will also go over the forms of casting in greater depth.”  
  
    She paused for a few seconds, going so utterly still that Harry wondered if she was all right. Then she gave herself a little shake, and continued. “What I’d like to focus on today is the origin of spells - specifically, the verbal spells.” The pointer was lifted, then gently swished, and several students gasped as a thick little pamphlet seemed to melt straight up from the surfaces of their desks. It read, in bright orange lettering:  
  
    THE SPOKEN SPELL  
     _The Art of Perfecting Your Speech and Training Away Stuttering_  
    By Prudentius Adcock  
  
    Below it was a photograph of an old man with a small, wispy beard and severe looking glasses. Bethwick set her wand aside and picked up her own copy of the pamphlet. “Good old Prudentius,” she said. “The first thing I want you to do is tear this up.” She looked out at them expectantly.  
  
    Nobody moved. They were too busy staring at her in shock.  
  
    “Come now,” she said. “I’ll start us off, if you like.” And Bethwick gripped the other edge of the pamphlet and tore it right down the middle with an air of immense satisfaction. Then, calm as anything, she layered the pieces and tore it in half again, then let the paper fall to her desk. She raised an eyebrow at them.  
  
    Surprisingly, it was Hermione who made the first move, tentatively ripping away the cover off of her pamphlet. At Bethwick’s approving nod, she tore into it with gusto, and soon everyone, despite their confusion, was gleefully tearing the pamphlets apart. When there was a layer of torn paper on everyone’s desks, Bethwick smiled at them.  
  
    “Well done,” she said, and picked up her wand. “One of the first things we are taught is that we must pronounce spells clearly and correctly. This doesn’t seem unreasonable, at first, until you consider two things.” She tapped her wand on the board, and a bullet point sprang forth. “First, a very wide variety of speech impediments exist, ranging from the mild to the extreme, and there is, so far, no magical cure. Second, we have the issue of accents. The majority of wizardkind can train ourselves or be trained to at least a passing pronunciation, but there are those who simply can’t, and we shouldn’t punish them for it.”  
  
    Another tap, another bullet point. “Hard work will get you anything, they say,” she said dryly. “But magic doesn’t work like that. Spoken spells are there for _us_ , not for the magic. If we are not confident in what we are casting, the spell will fail or be weak. That is the underlying lesson in ‘perfect pronunciation’ that has, mostly, been lost. Words are a human invention - magic is not.”  
  
  
    The journal was missing.  
  
    Dudley gnawed his lip as he emptied his school bag onto his bed for the umpteenth time and discovered that the book still wasn’t in there. The silver manticore box he’d got from a cracker at the previous Christmas sat forlornly on his pillow - he’d already searched it twice, and nearly upset the Potions supplies within. His trunk, too, was open, looking a bit as if something had exploded inside.  
  
    “Bollocks,” he said finally, and sat on the floor with a huff. He’d wanted to show it to Dumbledore when they met on Monday. _Suppose that’s not going to happen,_ he thought ruefully. _At least I’ve a name to give him._ He looked up as Neville entered the room and did a double-take, clearly alarmed at the new level of mess.  
  
    “All right?” Neville asked hesitantly.  
  
    With a sigh, Dudley admitted, “I lost a book. Is it time for dinner?” He got up and began shoving his stuff haphazardly back into his trunk.  
  
    “Yeah,” Neville said. “The Gryffindors should be getting out of class right now, so we have a little time to grab seats at their table.”  
  
    Leaving his school bag and manticore case on his bed, Dudley followed him out into the common room, where Hannah was bouncing impatiently. “Come _on_ ,” she said, grabbing their arms. “I’m hungry!”  
  
    The three of them hurried to the Great Hall and sat beside the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table, accepting fond hair ruffling as punishment for their invasion. Across from them were Ginny, Luna, and Colin, who were griping about Snape. Or, at least, Ginny was griping about Snape. Colin was agreeing with everything she said, and Luna was playing with her silverware and humming.  
  
    “-can’t expect us to be _perfect_ , we’ve _just started_ ,” Ginny complained, smushing her face with her hands in frustration and making a garbled noise.  
  
    “Careful,” said Fred, grinning, “ickle Dudders is his favorite.”  
  
    Dudley groaned and hid his face, which he was pretty sure had turned tomato red. “I doubt it,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not his _least_ favorite.”  
  
    Mercifully, Professor Bethwick, followed by the second year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, chose that moment to enter the Great Hall. The students hurried to their tables, and Dudley looked expectantly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione as they sat down.  
  
    “So? How was it?” he asked.  
  
    The three of them hesitated. “It was interesting,” said Hermione. “I’m mostly glad she didn’t actually teach us from that pamphlet, I looked through it when she gave it to us. It was... horrible.” She shuddered.  
  
    “It was fun to tear it up, but she lost me after that,” Ron admitted, and began shoveling food on his plate as it appeared. “She didn’t put me to sleep like Professor Saowaluk did, though. She’s a lot louder.”  
  
    Harry looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said finally. “She seems all right, though.”  
  
  
    “You have to help me, Minerva,” Hannah heard Lockhart say as she passed the break room. “You female professors have tea and things together, thought you might know what she likes, and I was wondering if she’d prefer pink robes or red as a gift? Those dratted green spectacles of hers are making it difficult.”  
  
    “ _Gilderoy_ ,” Professor McGonagall’s strained voice replied, “I’ve no interest in your courting. What I am interested in is your lessons - or rather, your neglecting them...”  
  
  
    Professor Bethwick did not appear in pink robes the next day, or any other, but someone did charm lurid green letters spelling POMPOUS FOP across the back of Lockhart’s robes. The letters shed glitter, which stuck to Lockhart so firmly that he was half-encased in a shell by the end of the day. Harry saw Professor Flitwick discreetly tip his hat to Bethwick in passing, and she inclined her head in return.  
  
  
    On Monday, the same day as Lockhart’s glitter shell, Dudley visited Dumbledore. The office was much the same as it had been the year before, and he had beaten the Headmaster to it once again. He said hello to Fawkes, who was shedding feathers, and gave him a gentle neck scratch before going over to the Sorting Hat. It lifted its brim in greeting, and Dudley gave it a ginger pat. “Hello,” he said amiably. “Hope you had a nice quiet summer. I suspect this year will be a bit... exciting.”  
  
    “What makes you say that?” Dumbledore asked from behind him, and his eyes crinkled in mirth as Dudley jumped and turned to face him. “Hello, Dudley.”  
  
    “Professor,” said Dudley, grinning briefly, and they took their respective seats at the Headmaster’s desk. The second-year accepted one of the offered lemon drops and said, “This thing with Professors Lockhart and Bethwick, for starters. I hope he stops before she hexes him into oblivion.”  
  
    “Ah, young love,” said Dumbledore dryly. “Had I but known, I think perhaps I would have sought another Defense Professor. As it stands, however, he was the... safer option. No one is exactly clamoring for the position. Besides that, I have reasons of my own for wanting him here.”  
  
    At Dudley’s puzzled look, he said, “Our dear Gilderoy Lockhart is a fraud, I’m afraid. I remember him... quite well from his time here, and I have heard very interesting things about his supposed deeds.”  
  
    “And you’re hoping that having him here will provide evidence?” Dudley guessed. “You should recruit Professor Bethwick, I bet she’d love to help.”  
  
    Dumbledore smiled. “What makes you think I haven’t? But enough of that for now - how was your summer? I understand there was some trouble with a house elf.”  
  
    Without hesitation, Dudley gave him a brief outline of the Dobby issue, and ended it with what Harry and Ron had learned from Darvy. “We know that he is a Malfoy elf,” he said, “but from the looks of things he’s acting on his own. And-” He hesitated. He knew that the Malfoys were a very prominent pureblood family, and that an accusation like this could cause a lot of problems. However. “I absolutely saw Lucius Malfoy slip something into one of Ginny Weasley’s books when we were at Diagon Alley. I got it out without anyone seeing.”  
  
    “What was it?”  
  
    Dudley grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “A journal. Shabby, old, not very thick. Made in a Muggle shop, going by the stamp. There was a name in it - T. M. Riddle. Trouble is, it’s gone missing. I’ve been keeping it in my pocket so that it wouldn’t get lost, but it’s as if it’s disappeared.”  
  
    The Headmaster was still as a statue, a strange shadow on his face. Then he said, slowly, “Do you know what Voldemort’s name was?”  
  
    “No,” said Dudley slowly, but had a horrible notion he was about to learn it.  
  
    “Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking very weary. “You mentioned, in June, that the Chamber of Secrets would open this year. The last time it opened, Voldemort was still a student here.”  
  
    “Oh, _bollocks_ ,” the blond breathed, sitting back in his chair, and the Headmaster didn’t bother to chide him for his language. “I’ve got to find that journal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, folks - first I dithered, then I had super limited internet access. I thought about trying to upload it via my phone, but, well. You can see how well that worked out.
> 
> In any case, please let me know if you think I've wonked up Callidora's first lesson, is it too heavy for 12 yr olds, etc. etc. I think even if it is, I'm going to leave it, because it isn't as if Callidora's ever been a teacher before - but as I learn from you all, so shall she learn from the population of Hogwarts. Also, please, please tell me if the lesson is utter gibberish to you or not because sometimes things I write make perfect sense to me but may as well be Martian to everyone else.


	6. The House-Elf's Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry about the super long wait, I love all of you for being so patient and sweet. Because some(okay, probably most) of you were worried I was abandoning this, let me say once and for all: I will never abandon this series. No matter how long it takes. Promise. <3 How could I, when I have all this neat stuff planned? Nawww.
> 
> ANYWAY this chapter and the next are a little short but you shouldn't have to wait nearly a year for the next update so hopefully you'll forgive me a lil bit?

**CHAPTER SIX**

  
  
  
    “Oh! Sorry, Dursley, I didn’t see you there.”  
  
    Dudley’s heart stopped, and he looked up from where he was kneeling in the Potions section a little warily. Standing near him, eyes still a little wide in surprise, was Padma. Incredibly young, small, _different_ Padma. He cleared his throat and got to his feet, picking up the books he’d collected, and took a careful step back. “Er, it’s fine, ah, Patil. Need help finding something? I practically live in this section, so...”  
  
    She gave a sort of half-giggle and said, “No, I was just looking for Cho- but since you ask, do you know where Reynard’s Treatise is?”  
  
    With a hum, Dudley cast a glance at the shelves. “The one on vial properties, or the one on cauldrons?”  
  
    Clearly surprised, she said, “The cauldron one.”  
  
    It was on the top shelf, so Dudley had to stretch a little to reach it, but a moment later, he handed two books to Padma, one thick, one barely more than a few pages stapled together. “What’s this?” she asked, turning the smaller book so she could read the title.  
  
    “C. Momum’s thesis. It’s sort of a companion to Reynard - it clarifies things, and he adds to some of the theories,” Dudley said, stepping back. “It, er, helped me a lot. Not that you need the help, I’m sure! I just - um.” He stopped himself before he could make it worse and absently scratched his cheek, looking away in embarrassment.  
  
    Padma looked at him oddly, then smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Thanks, I think,” she said, and went in search of Cho. Dudley released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and rubbed his eyes. She was too like and unlike his family, and, not for the first time, he thought, _I need to get home._  
  
  
  
    On the other of the castle, in an alcove behind a suit of armor that was humming a jaunty tune to itself, Hannah was having some second thoughts about trying out for Quidditch. She was sat with her back against one side of the alcove, knees tucked up to her chin, as she idly bounced a rubber ball against the opposite wall and tried not to hit herself in the face with it.  
  
    She ducked as a particularly vicious throw turned against her, and the ball bounced off the wall behind her head, shot out of the alcove, and disappeared down the corridor. “Lucky you’re not trying for Seeker, dear,” said the armor sympathetically in its deep, slightly rusty voice.  
  
    Hannah huffed and hugged her legs, pressing her face to her knees. “Yeah,” she muttered. “Good thing.” She glanced at her watch - still an hour to go - and let out a long sigh and closed her eyes. “Maybe I should just give up before I embarrass myself in front of everyone.”  
  
    “Oh, come now, dearie,” the armor creaked, “Don’t you worry about the others. You’ll do fine.”  
  
    She turned her face to squint at the back of the armor’s calves. “Easy for you to say,” she complained. “You don’t have to worry about making an idiot of yourself on a broom.”  
  
    “I think you’ll do just fine,” the armor crooned, or at least, tried to croon.  
  
    “ _I_ think I’ll fall to a gruesome, crunchy dea- oh!” Hannah jumped in surprise as the lost ball appeared right in front of her nose. The hand holding it was tiny and spindly, and the creature attached to it was, she quickly realized, a house elf. Its large eyes were crinkled in mirth.  
  
    “Your ball, miss,” it squeaked gently, and after a moment, Hannah accepted it.  
  
    “Thank you, um...?”  
  
    “Ebby,” said the elf, primly smoothing the pink-striped pillowcase it wore. “Timekeeper of the laundry elves.” As if sensing the reason behind Hannah’s uncertainty, Ebby added with some amusement, “Ebby is female, miss.”  
  
    Hannah blushed, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. Pleased to meet you, Ebby, I’m Hannah. Um - do you... need anything?” She sat up in alarm. “Am I in your way? I can move-”  
  
    “Miss Hannah is fine,” Ebby assured her, waving her down. “Ebby is here to give a gift.”  
  
    “A gift?” Hannah echoed, baffled, and blinked as a tiny fist was thrust forward. At Ebby’s prompting, she extended a hand, and the elf dropped something onto her palm. It looked like a marble, but tiny, no bigger than one of Hannah’s fingernails. It was perfectly round, and a piece of wire had been twisted around it with a hook at one end to turn it into a pendant. She looked up. “Why?”  
  
    “For good luck,” said Ebby quietly, smiling. “It was given to Ebby when she first came to Hogwarts. Ebby heard Miss Hannah’s worry, and thinks she needs it more, now.” She gave Hannah’s hand a pat, then disappeared with a soft popping noise, leaving only the pendant and the scent of fresh laundry.  
  
    “Thank you,” Hannah said belatedly, thrown, then looked down at the gift. The worn pendant looked cheap, maybe glass or resin, and the wire was dingy, but it had been treated with obvious care. With some reverence, she took off her necklace and slid the pendant onto the chain. It settled beside the little flower pendant that had already been there, and she put the necklace back on. Suddenly feeling much better, if still puzzled, she climbed out of the alcove and tucked the ball into her pocket.  
  
    “Right,” she said aloud. “Time to play some Quidditch.”  
  
    “That’s the spirit, dear,” said the armor cheerily.  
  
  
  
    Harry thought he might have to sneak in to watch the Hufflepuff tryouts, being from another team and all, but Cedric immediately put that fear to rest by waving him and the others on towards the bleachers with a friendly grin. The rest of the team didn’t seem to mind, either, and Hannah gave them a nervous smile as they passed her.  
  
    As they settled in to watch, Colin turned up, camera in hand, to hover uncertainly at the edge of their group. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Come sit, Colin,” he said. “Dudley doesn’t bite.”  
  
    “Not unless you’re secretly a cake,” Dudley agreed. “You aren’t, are you?” He made a show of squinting suspiciously at Colin, who laughed and plonked down beside Hermione.  
  
    “What position is Hannah trying for?” he asked, lifting his camera to take a couple quick shots of the field.  
  
    “Keeper,” Ron said. “She’ll be backup, of course, since they’ve already got one. They might train her as an extra Chaser, too.”  
  
    “Oh! Shush, it’s starting!” said Hermione excitedly, and they all stared intently down at the pitch.  
  
    The Hufflepuff captain ran Hannah and the others through a series of exercises, then had them play a game of catch before even allowing them on broomsticks. When she was satisfied, she had them mount up and run a relay race close to the ground. One applicant, a third year, got cocky and flew higher than was allowed, and the captain immediately pulled him from the race and had him sit on the sidelines. Finally, when the race was over, the captain had all of them fly up, with the team proper sat some way beneath in case of falls. Then the newcomers were tested for aptitude with the actual balls - drills were run with the quaffle, and a game of catch with the snitch(which only one person caught, and that mostly by accident). It was slightly different from the Gryffindor tryouts from earlier in the week, which had been more militaristic than the Hufflepuff captain’s system. _Good to know not everyone is like Oliver Wood,_ Harry thought wryly. Much as he liked his captain, he could get a little... enthusiastic.  
  
    Then the captain handed out bats and released a bludger.  
  
    Immediately, the situation devolved into chaos. Half the newcomers panicked and tried to avoid it, sending them crashing into each other. Hannah was almost knocked off her broom, making Hermione muffle a shriek, but righted herself at the last moment and ducked under her fellows. She stared up, then darted into the fray. She was lost in the crowd, but then Harry saw the bludger rocketing out and away, followed by a streak of blonde hair as Hannah positioned herself above the others, who were still a chaotic mess. The bludger swooped down from another angle, and the girl swung again, fumbling because of the sudden change of position. As a result, her blow wasn’t quite as solid, but it did buy her time to fly at the bludger and send it flying again.  
  
    The Hufflepuff captain finally stepped in and, with a quick flick of her wand, cast a charm that encased the ball in a protective bubble. It rippled as the bludger beat against the walls, but remained firm. This done, the captain turned her attention to the fray, and gave everyone a long talking-to. Harry wished he could hear them. He knew, of course, that it was probably just a warning not to panic every time they see a bludger, all the standard scolding, but he found himself increasingly curious about how other captains handled their teams.  
  
    “I bet they’ll have her for Beater,” said Ron cheerfully. “Did you see how she flew at it? Bet she’ll give Fred and George a run for their money.” He sounded far too pleased at the idea, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.  
  
    “I wonder if she’ll be okay with it if they do,” Hermione murmured, frowning. “She _really_ wanted to be a Keeper.”  
  
    Dudley, who looked about as ill as he always did around Quidditch, shrugged a shoulder. “I think if she doesn’t want to be a Beater, they won’t push her into it. Even if she didn’t tell them off, Cedric would step in.”  
  
    “What do you mean?” Harry asked, looking curiously at his cousin.  
  
    “Cedric,” said Dudley with some amusement, “is a bit of a mother hen. Did you know he’s the reason no one made a fuss about Gryffindors sitting at our table last year?”  
  
    Harry blinked. “Really?”  
  
    “Yup. I only just learned it myself. He’s always taking care of the first and second years in our House, too, making sure we’re all getting enough rest, helping with homework.” Dudley grinned. “He thinks he’s being really clever and no one notices, but we’re all onto him. Well, now, anyway. It's gotten really obvious since they made him prefect.”  
  
    The Hufflepuffs on the pitch, meanwhile, had returned to the ground, and the captain was sorting out who was staying and who was going. Most of the newcomers shuffled off, drooping, leaving only the girl who’d caught the snitch, Hannah, and two boys. The captain shook all their hands, and talked to them a little more before releasing them. Hannah immediately raced over to the bleachers, face bright with excitement.  
  
    “Did you _see_?” she cried, climbing over the seats to get to them. “That bludger was like, _whoosh_! And I was like, _pkow_!” She swung her arms as if holding the bat, beaming.  
  
    “It was brilliant!” Ron crowed, and they engaged in a cheerful mock swordfight with pretend bats. As the others got up and shuffled towards the steps, the two scurried ahead, dueling the whole way down to the grass.  
  
    “So what did they say?” Harry asked eagerly, hopping off the third step. Colin did the same thing and tottered dangerously before the older boy caught him. “Are you going to be Keeper or Beater?”  
  
    Hannah spun to face them, grinning, and walked backwards towards the castle. “Beater. The captain said I’d be all right as a Keeper, and I can train for that too, but that I should focus on my _bat skills_.” She made the swinging motion again, nearly taking out Dudley’s head. He shuffled out of range, snickering.  
  
    “Good for you!” Hermione said, smiling brightly. “We knew you’d make it!”  
  
    The Hufflepuff beamed, opening her mouth to speak, only for her face to go wary and shuttered as she stopped and stared past them. Harry turned to look, and scowled. “Malfoy,” he said.  
  
    “Potter,” the other sneered. In all the excitement, they’d missed the arrival of the Slytherin team. There were a number of second and third year newcomers trailing the team, but Harry did not miss the way Malfoy already wore the team robes, or the new brooms in the hand of each player.  
  
    “What are _you_ doing here, Malfoy?” Ron demanded.  
  
    “Why, I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” Malfoy said, affecting a look of mock surprise. “Hadn’t you heard?”  
  
    “How did you manage to make the team before tryouts?” Harry asked coolly. “Bought your way on, did you?”  
  
    Malfoy lifted his chin, smirking. “Recruited, actually,” he replied. “The brooms were a gift from my father, as congratulations. Latest Two Thousand model, you know.”  
  
    Hermione, who was still mostly uninterested in the ongoing rivalry, snorted in disgust. “Come on, let’s go,” she said, tugging on Harry’s sleeve, and when he had turned from Malfoy, added, “He can’t help it if Flint only wants his father’s money.”  
  
    Harry stared at her, shocked, then looked back at the other boy, who for an instant, looked just as surprised. Then Malfoy scowled and spat, “Keep out of this, _Mudblood_.”  
  
    It wasn’t a name Harry was familiar with, but he could guess its meaning from the way it made Dudley’s face go white with anger in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time, and the others were so shocked that for a moment, none could speak. For her part, Hermione went very, very still. Then she straightened her shoulders, tossed her hair, and started leading them away without another word. Harry was tempted to turn back, but she caught his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.  
  
    They might have made it back to the castle without incident, except that behind them, Malfoy laughed. “That’s right,” he called. “Go mind your pets, Potter! Maybe teach them some new tricks, like fetch, or _speak_ -”  
  
    Before Harry even had time to react, Hermione had whirled and screamed a spell, wand moving so quickly he couldn’t track its movement. The force of it sent Malfoy rocketing back into the Slytherin team, who had approached to draw Malfoy back on task. A couple of the second years behind them drew wands, shouting a few unsteady spells of their own. One struck Hermione’s shoe, which began to melt, and she frantically kicked it off. Ron lunged forward, eager to join in, but Dudley caught the back of his shirt with one hand and Colin’s shirt collar with the other, and drew them back out of the line of fire. He was unable to stop Hannah, who shoved Neville towards him and fired off a quick shot of energy that sparkled bright pink as it cracked against a Slytherin’s face. Harry drew his own wand, eyeing Malfoy, who was already getting to his feet despite his rapidly growing nose.  
  
    “ENOUGH!”  
  
    The unexpected wrath of Professor McGonagall was more than enough to shock them out of fighting. Her hair was fighting free of its usually tidy knot as she reached them, face thunderous. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.  
  
    “Malfoy called Hermione a- a Mudblood!” Hannah immediately said, glaring at the boy in question as she shoved her wand in her pocket.  
  
    “She hexed him!” shrieked the Slytherin girl who’d been struck by Hannah’s pink spell.  
  
    “And this is reason enough to start a battle on the pitch, I assume,” McGonagall said tightly. She cast an eye over the lot of them. “I see that some of you, at least, had the sense not to draw their wands. You will serve detention tomorrow, with Flitwick, after classes. Go.” When no one moved, she said, more firmly, “ _Before_ I change my mind. And Albrand, go to the Hospital Wing before your face gets stuck like that.”  
  
    Those who had not fought slinked off, a couple of the Slytherins helping Albrand, whose face had shrunk to such a size he was having trouble seeing. Dudley hauled off his charges and Neville, shooting an apologetic look over his shoulder. Harry shrugged at him.  
  
    “As for the rest of you,” said the professor, waving her wand to cancel the active spells. “I am deeply disappointed. Admirable though it may be to jump to defense of your housemates, there is no reason for it to have gotten so out of control. You Slytherins I shall leave to Professor Snape, with the exception of Mister Malfoy, whom I expect to see in my office the very moment he is out of the hospital wing.” She waved her hand, dismissing them, then turned to Harry, Hermione, and Hannah, who were all in various stages of staring intently at anything but her.  
  
    “Miss Abbott, I will leave you to your Head of House as well,” she said, sighing, and Hannah slouched away, hands stuffed in her pockets. Professor McGonagall flicked her wand twice, little paper birds sprouting in existence to flutter away, probably to Snape and Professor Sprout. Then she turned to Harry and Hermione. “Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy was very much out of line, but that is no excuse for your behavior.”  
  
    For a moment, Hermione did nothing but stare listlessly at a rock. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her head. “Sorry, Professor,” she murmured, not quite meeting Professor McGonagall’s eyes. She was the picture of apologetic, meek, but Harry saw that there was something steely about the way she stood.  
  
    If their Head of House saw it, she said nothing, only turned to Harry. He muttered an apology too, one that he knew she saw right through, and again she did not remark upon it. “Come to my office tonight after supper,” was all Professor McGonagall said. “I will tell you then what your detentions are - and you will be serving them for at _least_ a week, mark my words. Back to the castle with you, now.”  
  
  
  
    The rest of the day was spent with a feeling of doom lingering over them, especially after Hermione miserably pointed out that Lucius Malfoy would probably demand her expulsion from the school. Nothing Harry said could cheer her up, and truthfully, he didn’t feel so cheerful himself. Hannah, at least, met them at dinner with the news that she was still on the team.  
  
    “Detention with Hagrid for a month, and the captain’s not too happy,” she said grimly, “but it was worth it.”  
  
    Most of the Slytherins in the fight had not been on the team, since those had been winded by having Malfoy thrown at them, but word trickled down that the team was in trouble too. Malfoy’s fate was still unknown, though he’d turned up at dinner with his nose once again the proper size. He didn’t look anyone in the eye, and from what Harry saw, spoke to no one the entire meal.  
  
    Finally, it was time to face the music. As everyone split up to go to their common rooms, Harry and Hermione made for Professor McGonagall’s office. Before they even left the Hall, however, she approached them and crooked a finger, leading them away from the crowd and towards Lockhart. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of him.  
  
    “Mister Potter,” she said, “Professor Lockhart has asked to oversee your detentions. Please go with him. Miss Granger, follow me, please. You’ll be helping Madam Pomfrey tonight.” And she led Hermione away.  
  
    “Right!” said Lockhart, with far too much enthusiasm. “Let’s get on, shall we?” He set off, and Harry followed, wishing he could speed up time and go to bed. “Tonight, you’ll be helping me answer my fan mail! I think I’ll have you address the envelopes. I’ve only got you for three hours, so we’ll need to work quickly - there’s a lot to get done, especially if we want to get it all finished by the end of the week! But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble keeping up, and it’ll be fantastic practice for your own, eh, Potter?” He winked.  
  
    “Yes, Professor,” Harry said dully, casting a longing glance in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower.  
  
  
  
    “Come... come to me... Let me rip you... Let me tear you... Let me kill you...”  
  
    Harry, who only a moment before had been struggling to keep his eyes open, jumped at the unexpected voice, quill slipping across parchment and leaving a huge blotchy streak of lilac ink smeared across Veronica Smethley’s address. That hadn’t been Lockhart, he knew, because Lockhart was still prattling on about fame and glory and, strangely, sandwiches. “What was that?” Harry wondered, then grimaced when he realized it had been out loud and not in his head as he’d thought.  
  
    “Unbelievable, isn’t it? You’d think they’d be able to make a decent sandwich, magic and all, but I kept finding bits of feathers stuck to the cheese, or maybe it was onion-”  
  
    “No,” said Harry’s traitorous mouth, “that voice!”  
  
    Lockhart lifted his head and blinked at him a few times in puzzlement. “What voice?”  
  
    Harry cringed, and despite knowing the answer asked, weakly, to make sure, “You didn’t hear it?”  
  
    An irritatingly knowing look came over the professor’s face, and he wagged a finger. “Getting a bit drowsy, are we? Stay strong, Harry, we’ve still-” Lockhart stopped, squinted at the clock, then sat back in his chair and laughed. “Great Scott! You may have the right idea, my boy, we’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it - well, time does fly, and all. Off you go, Harry, I’ll see you again tomorrow.”  
  
    Great, Harry thought. At this rate I’ll be as mad as him. Feeling the beginnings of a headache, he mechanically got to his feet and left the room, listening absently for the voice as he went. There was nothing more to hear, however, and the silence was just as chilling as the voice had been. Suppressing a shudder, he hurried up to the common room. There was no one inside except for a seventh year sleeping on one of the sofas, and Harry tiptoed through to the dorm, not wanting to wake her.  
  
    As soon as he was inside, Ron sat right up, shoving his comic under his pillow and extinguishing his wand. “Harry!” he whispered. “How was it? Did she have you with Filch?”  
  
    “Lockhart,” Harry whispered back, changing into his pajamas. He got stuck in the shirt a moment, then said over Ron’s sympathetic grumbles, “Something weird happened.” And he told him all about the mysterious voice.  
  
    When he had finished, Ron frowned, the moonlight turning him pale and ghostly. “Lockhart couldn’t hear it? D’you think he was lying? Though maybe he just couldn’t hear anyone but himself. Still, anyone invisible would have to ‘ve opened the door. I don’t get it.”  
  
    With a tired huff, Harry lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. “Me neither,” he admitted.


	7. A Lack of Sleep

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

  
  
    A week into October, there had still, so far as Dudley knew, been no word from Lucius Malfoy. This was good news, in his mind, though it did nothing to stop Hermione worrying. On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly frolicking about himself. There was still no sign of Tom Riddle’s journal, and Harry was hearing strange voices in the walls. It was enough to turn one’s appetite. Almost.  
  
    With a groan, Dudley pushed his empty oatmeal bowl away and sat back, peering tiredly around the Great Hall. He was one of only three students there, the other two being an older Slytherin with his nose in an Arithmancy book and a tiny snoring Ravenclaw that Dudley was almost certain hadn’t moved from her seat the night before. Of the teachers, only Professor Callidora was present, who looked a little worse for the wear. On her way in, she hadn’t quite been quick enough to avoid walking into a trap left by one of Lockhart’s fans, and there were still bits of feather and newt in her hair. She, too, was immersed in a book, though she hadn’t turned the page in about half an hour.  
  
    As he wondered whether he should ask if she was okay, Altheda descended from the heavens in a great flapping of wings and indignant hooting. She landed heavily on the table in front of Dudley, narrowly missing a jar of syrup, and eyed at him balefully when she discovered a distinct lack of bacon on his plate.  
  
    “Sorry,” Dudley said, hiding a wince as she nipped his hand while he took the two letters from her claws. He murmured a quiet request, and a moment later, a small bowl appeared on the table for the owl, who was slightly mollified by the meaty bits therein. With a quiet word of thanks for the Hogwarts house-elves, Dudley turned the first envelope over and saw it was from Polly.  
  
    He’d dithered over writing her at first, but finally he’d sent off a short note the other day, with instructions for Altheda to stop by the apartment on her way back. It was an awful lot of flying, so he wasn’t surprised that the owl was cranky. He reached out and gently scritched her head, then opened Polly’s letter and started reading. It was written in a large, round hand, in bright purple marker, and Dudley couldn’t help grinning as she detailed her own school experiences, commented on what little he’d told her about his, and informed him that the only food she was allergic to was strawberries and that he needed to send her wizarding snacks. Granted, she didn’t exactly phrase it that way - what she actually wrote was “weird Northern snacks”, because they’d agreed to pretend that all mentions of magic were for a story they were going to write together. Dudley wasn’t sure why he was so worried, because there was no real reason for anyone to be monitoring his mail, but at the very least he felt slightly less like he needed to be on guard. In truth, the fact that he was using an owl to send letters to a Muggle would probably net him trouble on its own if anyone found out, but he was pretty sure he could handwave that one. Probably.  
  
    Dudley returned the letter to its envelope and pocketed it for later, then opened the one from his mother. It was brief, mostly letting him know that she’d been to lunch a couple times with Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger and that she was still looking for another job. In slightly more stiff handwriting than the rest, she asked him to say hello to Harry for her, and to remember to get a small list together for Christmas presents so she could plan for it this year. Dudley hummed under his breath, then put that letter away too and looked up as Hannah plopped onto the chair opposite him.  
  
    “Mornin’ Dud,” she said, or tried to say, he supposed, because what actually came out was closer to “Mrfin dush.” She hadn’t brushed her hair, which was doing its best impersonation of Harry’s unruly mop and hid her face almost entirely from view. He helpfully poured her some tea, and piled pancakes on her plate while she sipped.  
  
    “Morning, Hannah,” he said. “Why’re you up so early?”  
  
    She yawned hugely, then pushed her hair out of her face as she squinted blearily at her plate. “Someone set off another trap for Professor Bethwick and one of the fireworks got into the common room. Just because her office is near us, _honestly_.”  
  
    Ah, yes. The traps.  
  
    They’d started out the month before as pranks, little things here and there that Callidora had no trouble avoiding and that no one really paid any attention to. Recently, however, they’d started getting a little dangerous. For a while, suspicion had fallen on the Weasley twins, until the word got back to them and they’d put an end to that rumor by dubbing themselves her bodyguards.  
  
    As a result, the pranks had died down a little - but then whoever was doing it had gotten crafty, and started leaving traps around where Callidora might walk into them. It was quickly becoming a problem, because more often than not, it was catching everyone else. Dudley and Neville had gotten stuck in a floor that turned to knee-deep molasses just the day before, and it was still all Dudley could smell. The traps had even gotten Lockhart, although there was speculation as to whether or not it had been the same person who set it, since it was right outside his door.  
  
    Still. This was new. “Fireworks?” Dudley asked. “Is everyone okay?”  
  
    Hannah nodded, head dipping dangerously low to her plate, as she carefully slathered jam on her pancakes. “Cedric’s a little crispy,” she explained, pausing halfway through to yawn. “He stopped it. Did that bubble spell we use on bludgers.”  
  
    “Not before it set half the common room on fire,” said a different voice, and Cedric sat down at Hannah’s right, a smudge of soot on one cheek and his left eyebrow smoking gently. He looked half asleep himself, but he noticed Dudley’s concern and smiled lopsidedly as he pulled the tea pot to himself. “Don’t worry, Professor Sprout sorted it.”  
  
    By now the rest of their housemates - and the Slytherins, who apparently had been victims of stray fireworks from the same trap, though no one was entirely sure how they had got down there - were filtering slowly in, grumpy and rumpled from the unexpected wake-up. Dudley watched curiously as Draco shuffled over to the older Slytherin already at the table and plonked down next to him, muttering something that made the other boy look up with a curious expression. He looked over at the Hufflepuff table and met Dudley’s eye, then looked back at Draco and said something. Dudley looked away, greeting Neville as he approached and shifting over to make room.  
  
    “I know why I’m up,” Neville groused, settling heavily on the bench, “but why’re _you_?”  
  
    Dudley shrugged. “Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.” Which was mostly true, but the reason he woke up in the first place was because he’d been having weird dreams. They were mostly memories of his second year at Smeltings, and were mostly boring as a result, but they were all jumbled and didn’t seem to have any pattern to what pieces surfaced when. On the bright side, these ones hadn’t made him break his nose, though if they showed up while he was on a broom next week, he was going to have a serious problem. Next week was his flying test, and though he hadn’t been too worried before, he was definitely concerned now. Dudley reached for the potatoes, deciding he would talk to Dumbledore about it later.  
  
  
    In Herbology, Ron listened with only half an ear as Dudley told them about Polly’s letter(“She sent it to mum, who sent it to me,” he’d explained, but Ron had the oddest feeling that he was lying). It was all about her weird Muggle school, which Ron had quickly learned was even more boring than regular school, although Harry and Hermione seemed amused by it.  
  
    “Which reminds me,” Hermione said as Dudley finished, “have you written Mr. Lupin yet, Harry?”  
  
    Harry sheepishly shook his head. “Not yet,” he admitted. “I’m kind of nervous. I mean, what do I say?”  
  
    “Who’s Lupin?” asked Justin Finch-Fletchley, who hadn’t even been invited to the conversation. He had dark circles under his eyes, which were only half open, and somehow he managed to look worse than all the other Hufflepuffs combined.  
  
    “Family friend,” Harry muttered, a little uncertainly, and said, “Hey, lesson’s starting.”  
  
    On the bright side, it turned out they weren’t working with mandrake in Herbology that day. Instead, Professor Sprout(who looked a little singed herself) had a side project for them.  
  
    “The Bleeding Touch-Me-Not,” she said, gesturing to the small potted plants on their trays, “is used in potions and recipes alike, but it is tricky to care for and hard to obtain. Professor Lockhart-” this was said with some distaste “-generously purchased us a number of them for use in this years Christmas celebration, and for ingredients for our Potions classes.”  
  
    Ron shared a skeptical glance with Harry. The plants were weird, lumpy things, but the flowers were quite pretty - Ron was pretty sure they’d originally been a gift for Professor Bethwick, and that Lockhart probably had no idea what the plants were actually for.  
  
    “Today, we’ll be trimming the twigs down,” said Professor Sprout, passing around a box of delicate looking scissors. “As you can see, they’ve rather gotten out of hand.”  
  
    This statement was met with varying degrees of raised eyebrows at the plants in question. They were less plant than snarl, to the point where Ron wasn’t really sure he could’ve identified them as actual plants if he hadn’t been told. Professor Sprout spent the next ten or so minutes demonstrating the correct way to trim, and how to avoid snipping one of the buds or flowers or any lump, really, because the plant would start oozing toxic sap. After that, she assigned them to their trays, and to his dismay, Ron found himself stuck in the back corner of the greenhouse with Justin Finch-Fletchley.  
  
    “Murg,” the Hufflepuff grunted, having apparently lost the ability to speak since the lesson began, and Ron resigned himself to his fate.  
  
    “Let’s get this over with,” he said, tugging on his gloves with a little more violence than necessary.  
  
    Silence fell in the greenhouse except for the snipping of scissors and the rustling of leaves, though at one point Professor Sprout, who’d nodded off, startled herself awake when she began to snore. Every so often Ron glanced at Justin, who looked ready to pass out himself. He moved slowly, as if his arms were made of lead, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. Ron stared, finding himself genuinely concerned for his classmate’s fingers as Justin snipped away at the Bleeding Touch-Me-Not.  
  
    Which, of course, meant that the minute he looked away to actually do some of his own work, Justin yelped in alarm.  
  
    Ron’s head shot up, but the smell in the air wasn’t blood, however much the sap on Justin’s hands looked like it. Instead, it smelled strangely of maple syrup and sausages, except somehow sickening, like there was an undertone of rot. He quickly elbowed Justin out of the way and hefted the plant, which was heavier than something that small had any right to be. Grunting, he hauled it over to a ceramic tub set aside for just this purpose, thick red sap dripping everywhere. It puddled gruesomely on the floor and began to fizz gently, and Ron did his best not to step in it. There was, of course, nothing he could do about his sleeves, but he was to reach the tub without incident and set the Bleeding Touch-Me-Not inside. No sooner had he pulled his hands - mercifully clean of sap - away than the red ooze began to fill the tub, and he wondered if it was planning on drowning itself.  
  
    He plucked a spray bottle from a nearby shelf and began spraying the plant with it. The sap began to slow at the first drops of salt water, and Ron let out a breath of relief. “All right, Justin?” he asked, spritzing with gusto and marveling at how the plant sort of curled in on itself in response. The flowers, on the other hand, all popped open and shimmered in the light from the windows. Justin said nothing. He did set the scissors down on the table, or dropped them, rather, Ron couldn’t exactly tell, but he didn’t utter a word.  
  
    By now, some of the others had noticed the commotion, and Hermione helpfully took over spraying the plant down as Neville offered Ron a towel for his sleeves. Wrinkling his nose as he wiped the sap off, Ron turned to Justin, opening his mouth to speak, only to stop and stare.  
  
    Justin, for his part, had gone horribly pale, making the bags under his eyes stand out starkly, and his hands were trembling as he stared at them. They were absolutely smothered with the sap, which was slowly oozing its way under the edges of his sleeves. “Here, look, get those off,” Ron said, a little alarmed, and because Justin wasn’t moving, walked over and started pulling the Hufflepuff’s gloves off himself. “Wake up,” he snapped when Justin resisted slightly, and that startled him into movement. Once Justin had sheepishly wiggled his hands free and rolled up his sleeves, Ron dumped salt water over his hands and arms, washing the sap off. His wrists and palms had the worst of it, covered in thick dark welts that Professor Sprout clucked over as she brought over a jar of salve.  
  
    “Could be worse,” she said, which was not really very reassuring. “Let me see.” Justin, who was now wincing in pain, dutifully held out his hands, and bit his lip in discomfort when she started slathering the salve on. As Professor Sprout worked, she directed the rest of them into cleaning up, using towels and salt water, and by the time the greenhouse looked less like a crime scene, she had finished with the salve.  
  
    “There. Let’s get you up to Pomfrey.” She eyed the rest of the class, who were depositing the towels in a bin, then called, “Macmillan - yes, you - walk him to the Hospital Wing, there’s a lad.” She put the lid back on her jar of salve as the two boys trudged out of the greenhouse, then turned to Ron, who was still trying to get sap off his robes. She flicked her wand, and the sticky mess vanished, to his great relief. “Weasley, ten points.” Sprout glanced at the plant in the tub, which was half full of sap, and apparently deemed it a lost cause for the moment, because she added, “Help Patil for the rest of the class, since you’ve both lost your partners.”  
  
    “Yes, Professor,” Ron sighed, half-wishing he’d been the one covered in welts. At least then he wouldn’t have to stay in the stuffy greenhouse til the next class.  
  
    “As for the rest of you, back to work,” Professor Sprout said, shuffling back to her own station. “Most of your Bleeding Touch-Me-Nots still look like bramble, and I expect to see those flowers blooming by the end of class.”  
  
  
    At lunch, to everyone’s surprise, Cedric settled next to them at the Gryffindor table. Ignoring the puzzled looks from the rest of the table, he regarded Dudley and the others with raised eyebrows. “Exciting day, huh?” he asked teasingly. Harry, whose hair and nose were still blue and glittery, eyed him sourly, and Neville, whose head had been turned into that of a chicken, uttered a sad sounding _bawk_.  
  
    “How’s Justin?” asked a scaly-fingered Hermione, deciding to steer the conversation into safter waters.  
  
    “Better,” Cedric said, and smiled at Ron. “Just sleeping it off. He said to tell you thanks, by the way. I guess he was really out of it this morning.”  
  
    “Or something,” Ron muttered, and scratched at his feathery chin.  
  
     The older Hufflepuff eyed them all with amusement, and said, “So did all of you walk into the same trap, or...?”  
  
    Hannah groaned loudly and let her head drop to the table with a _thunk_. “I hate this!” she complained, voice slightly muffled. “Madam Pomfrey won’t even reverse it because it’ll wear off!” Her hair, which had apparently taken on life of its own, gnawed on the empty plate by her shoulder. Dudley watched in horrified fascination as bits of golden dish actually disappeared.  
  
    “Professor McGonagall just told us to reverse it ourselves, if we were so impatient,” Harry grumbled. “Think she was laughing when we left.”  
  
    Cedric looked like he wanted to laugh too, but instead asked, “Want me to try and fix it?”  
  
    “No thanks,”  Dudley sighed, almost choking on one of the iridescent bubbles coming out of his mouth. “Hermione already tried.”  
  
    “So did we,” the Weasley twins chimed in, leaning over Colin and Ginny to grin at them.  
  
    “Does this mean we get to visit your table now, Diggory?” Fred asked brightly.  
  
    “Not even to ask for sugar,” Cedric replied, deadpan, but ruined it by grinning back.  
  
    Hannah’s hair, which had started on the silverware, went suddenly limp, and she jerked upright, eyes wide. When she carefully patted her head and her hair remained just that, she let out a noise almost like a sob. “Thank _Merlin_.” Neville squawked, either in celebration or envy, then choked as his head abruptly returned to that of a human with a faint popping sound. The rest of them soon reverted to normal, to their great relief, and Dudley, glancing up at the head table, was the only one to see Callidora put away her wand.  
  
  
    Dumbledore’s office was, as always, an oasis of quiet, but it seemed heavier, somehow. Dudley fidgeted, gripping the velvet cushion of the chair in nervous fingers.  
  
    “I must admit,” Dumbledore said at length, “the absence of the journal worries me the most. But if you think your memories are going to interfere with your life, that could prove dangerous too. We don’t want a repeat of last year - or worse, even.”  
  
    Dudley grimaced at the idea. “No,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure what to do. I’ve been meditating regularly, and it was fine until now.”  
  
    The Headmaster stroked his beard, humming. “I believe I may know of something, but it may take a while before I can get it delivered. In the meantime, I suggest either trying a different method of sorting your memories - I understand you use a book visualization? - or practice emptying yourself of emotion as you work through them. Even boredom or disinterest can be a distraction.”  
  
    “I guess I can see that,” Dudley said slowly, though he wasn’t at all sure he could manage a different visualization. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe all he needed to do was fill another book.  
  
    An image sprang into his mind unbidden, full of the scent of old, dusty leather and parchment, a slender tome with various plants worked into the cover. He knew it was an old herbal he’d seen in a shop window in Vortic Alley, but in his mind, the cover was blank where the title ought to have been, and the pages inside were smooth and creamy, not a trace of ink on them. Dudley was lost for a moment, mentally examining this new thing, and it took him long enough to come back out of it that he was almost surprised Dumbledore hadn’t tried to get his attention. As it happened, the old wizard had politely averted his gaze, and was murmuring affectionately at Fawkes, who was perched on his shoulder. Feeling a little embarrassed, Dudley cleared his throat, and the Headmaster looked over at him.  
  
    “Successful?” the old wizard asked, eyes twinkling with humor.  
  
    “Maybe,” Dudley said, smiling slightly. “But I guess we’ll know before long if it actually helps.”


	8. Absolutely Petrified

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

  
  
    “You’ve got to help me,” Harry said, throwing himself a little dramatically down on the bench at the Hufflepuff table, and that was the end of it, really.  
  
    Or, rather, the start of it, but the _actual_ beginning was more like this.  
  
    Quidditch practice had been wet and miserable, and that had been before the Weasley twins, who’d been spying on the Slytherin team, reported on just how fast those shiny new brooms were. Harry, covered head to toe in mud and rain, stomped squelchily down a deserted corridor, wondering if he could afford new brooms for _his_ team, and almost walked right through Nearly Headless Nick. Luckily, Harry managed to stop himself just in time, and blinked up at the ghost, who looked just as preoccupied as he had been.  
  
    “Hello, Nick,” he said.  
  
    The ghost startled and looked round - even, for some reason, at the ceiling - before spotting Harry at last. As always, he wore a dashing, plumed hat atop his long curls, but his clothing had somehow changed to something more ostentatiously decorated than usual, and Harry was half certain that the ruff hiding his neck had more lace than before. In any case, the ruff was drooping a little, as if reflecting the mood of the ghost who wore it. Nick himself was paler and thinner than usual. Harry usually had to try to see through him, but now he could see clearly see right through him and the window behind him. “Hello! You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke. He tucked it into his doublet and patted the spot. Harry wondered, briefly, how exactly the postal system worked for ghosts.  
  
    “So do you,” he said, a touch belatedly. “Are you all right?”  
  
    “Pish,” said Nick, waving an elegant hand, “A matter of no importance.” The gesture turned a little jerky as he continued, “It’s not as if I truly wanted to join, after all. Thought I’d apply, you know, why not, but apparently I ‘don’t fufill requirements’-”  
  
    His light voice was laced with bitterness, and sure enough, as Harry opened his mouth, Nick interrupted with, “But you would _think_ , wouldn’t you, that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”  
  
    Harry gaped. “Er- yes?”  
  
    At this point, Nick had drawn out the letter and was agitatedly hitting his palm with it. It was a little disturbing, actually, that it made the same sounds that parchment against living skin would make. “After all,” the ghost went on, “nobody wishes more than I that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly. It would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule! However-” He shook the letter open a touch viciously and read: “‘We can only accept hunsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’”  
  
    Nearly Headless Nick looked angry enough to try eating the letter in his hands, but eventually, he settled for stuffing it up his sleeve. “Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on! Most people would think that’s good and beheaded, wouldn’t you agree?” Harry nodded a little frantically, eyes wide. “But oh, no, it’s not enough for _Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore_.”  
  
    The ghost took several deep breaths, which Harry found quite impressive, as he lacked lungs, then said in a much calmer tone, “I apologize - what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”  
  
    “No,” said Harry, gloom returning as he remembered his own plight. “Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly-”  
  
    “Mow!”  
  
    Harry froze, a trickle of cold fear - or perhaps rain water - rolling down his spine. There was only one creature that sounded that smug, and with some trepidation, he looked down at his ankles. Mrs. Norris, all bones and enormous yellow eyes, stared knowingly back up at him, tail flicking. Slowly, deliberately, she began to purr.  
  
    “You’d better get out of here,” Nick said with some urgency. “Filch is in a terrible mood, he’s got the flu, and he’s been cleaning non-stop since some third years accidentally got frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. If he sees you dripping mud all over the place-”  
  
    “Right,” said Harry, who had little interest in getting a dressing down over some mud, and he carefully stepped back from the cat, who had wound herself about his feet. She meowed a little judgmentally.  
  
    Deciding not to waste any more time, Harry turned to go, and almost ran smack into Filch, who had just emerged, wheezing, from a tapestry. He had a thick tartan scarf about his head, and his nose was a truly alarming shade of purple. “Are you sure that’s the flu?” Harry blurted, and was, fortunately, ignored, because about the same time, Filch started shouting.  
  
    “Filth!” he bellowed, jowls wobbling and eyes popping as he pointed at the muddy floor. “Mess and muck everywhere!” Filch sniffed and snorked a moment, making Harry’s stomach roil in disgust, before he continued. “I’ve had enough, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”  
  
    ( “So that’s where you went,” Ron said. “I’d wondered. But what do you need help with?”  
  
    “Hold on,” Harry said, flapping a hand at him. “I’m getting there.”  
  
    “Watch the gravy,” said Hannah, reaching over to keep Harry from dipping his sleeve in the gravy boat at the same time as Dudley. Despite several other varieties of foodstuff being spilled or knocked over in the ensuing ruckus, the story was eventually picked back up. )  
  
    After leaving a muddy trail all throughout the castle, because Filch, in his sickly state, got them turned round twice, they finally succeeded in making it downstairs to the cranky old man’s office. Harry, who had never been inside before, took the opportunity to stare at everything. The room was surprisingly cramped-feeling for one of its size, but the dim lamp hanging from the low ceiling didn’t help much, Harry supposed. Surprisingly the office was spotless, and yet it still looked grimy, and there was a faint smell of fried fish about. The walls were completely hidden by rows of wooden filing cabinets, meticulously labeled in several different iterations of handwriting. They contained, as near as Harry could tell, files on every student that had ever been punished, going back to probably the last century. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves.  
  
    Behind Filch’s heavy oak desk, there hung on the wall a set of highly polished chains and manacles, set out according to size and length. Harry eyed these warily, though he knew as well as anyone that Dumbledore still refused to let Filch suspend anybody by their ankles from the ceiling.  
  
    Muttering darkly and incoherently, the caretaker grabbed a black quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for blank parchment, setting two chewed-on pencils rolling off his desk and into the wastebasket, accompanied by several lozenge wrappers and what looked like a wooden gerbil. It bounced off the rim of the bin and vanished into the gloom. Mrs. Norris set off after it, purring like a broken motor, and vanished as well, which was more than a little unsettling.  
  
    Filch freed a long roll of parchment from his desk with a flourish that sent several papers falling to the floor, then stretched it out atop everything else and dipped the quill into the ink pot. “Name... Harry Potter. Crime...”  
  
    Harry, whose attention had still been on the cat, snapped his indignant gaze to the caretaker. “It was only a bit of mud!” he protested.  
  
    “It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, nose dripping all over his scarf. With a grunt, he withdrew a grimy handkerchief and dabbed at his face, squinting balefully at Harry, who awaited his sentence with a rapidly sinking stomach.  
  
    However, before Filch’s quill could touch parchment, there was an enormous _BANG!_ on the ceiling which caused the drawers of the filing cabinets to rattle and the lamp to swing dangerously, flickering ominously as it did.  
  
    “PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down the quill and hauling himself up from the chair, and in a flash was gone from the office, Mrs. Norris at his heels.  
  
    With a sigh of relief, Harry silently sent up a word of thanks to Peeves for his timing and slumped onto a moth-eaten chair beside the desk. It didn’t take long for his attention to wander, however, and he turned to the desk itself. Aside from his partially completed form and the piles of miscellaneous parchment, one thing stood out - a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering and scrollwork on the edges. Shooting a wary glance at the door, Harry picked it up and read:  
  
    KWIKSPELL  
    A Correspondence Course in Beginner’s Magic  
  
    “Huh,” he said aloud, and flicked it open to pull out the parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said:  
  
    Feel out of step in the world of modern magic?  
    Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells?  
    Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?  
    There is an answer! Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course.  
    Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method!  
  
    “‘An hour of scrubbing’,”  Harry whispered, and read on with growing discomfort. He knew, of course, what a squib was, as there were quite a few living at Thisseldon, but somehow, finding out that Filch was one didn’t sit well with him. Was he really expected to keep Hogwarts clean by himself, without magic? Obviously there were house-elves, but they didn’t do everything, apparently. Despite himself, and to his horror, he felt a sudden sympathy for the cantankerous old man.  
  
    ( “A squib?” Ron said, loudly, and ducked sheepishly when they all hushed him. “That explains a lot.”  
    “Yeah,” said Harry, who hadn’t mentioned the sympathetic thing. “It does.” )  
  
    He had just enough time before Filch returned to stuff the parchment back into the purple envelope and put it on the desk. The caretaker, looking triumphant, shuffled in, saying gleefully to his cat, “That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable! We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet-”  
  
    The caretaker froze as his eyes fell on the desk, then flicked to Harry, who realized belatedly that he had not put the Kwikspell envelope back in the same place it had been before, and that shade of purple really, really stood out against the rest of the desk. Filch’s pasty face went dark red under the scarf.  
  
    ( “And he let me go,” Harry said lamely, deciding not to detail how humiliated Filch had been. “He was too distracted by Peeves, I guess.” )  
  
    Harry didn’t give Filch time to change his mind, and he hurried out of the office, almost slipping on a streak of mud. At the base of the stairs, he hesitated, then turned and shot the only cleaning spell he knew at the muddy trail, which didn’t do much more than smear it around. Frowning, he tried again with similar results, then gave up and resumed his escape.  
  
    When he reached the next floor, Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom, looking awfully pleased with himself. He was more opaque than he had been, so Harry had to peek around him to see, but in the room the ghost had just left was the shattered remains of a large black and gold cabinet. “Did it work?” Nick asked eagerly. “I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office, thought it might distract him-”  
  
    “That was you?” Harry asked, grinning. “Yeah, it worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!”  
  
    They set off up the corridor together in companionable silence. Harry, glancing at his ghostly companion, couldn’t help but notice the bit of parchment sticking out of his sleeve. “I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” he said.  
  
    Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry, not noticing in time, walked right through him. He shuddered, hair standing on end, as the icy sensation washed over him.  
  
    ( “Oh, no,” groaned Neville, who had a terrible suspicion that he was not going to like this. )  
  
    “I think there is something you could do for me,” said Nick slowly, excitement growing in his voice. “Harry, would I be asking too much- but no, you wouldn’t want-”  
  
    “What is it?” Harry asked, turning to look back at the ghost, who was beaming at him.  
  
  
    “And he wants me to go to his deathday party on Halloween,” Harry concluded, a little glumly.  
  
    Hermione, of course, looked charmed and intrigued by the idea. “I’ll bet there aren’t many living people who’ve been to one!” she said, staring into space as she imagined it, and stabbed absently at her dinner. “He said we’re all invited?”  
  
    “Hold on,” Neville protested, and Hannah, who still jumped whenever a ghost passed her, looked vaguely ill. “Wouldn’t that mean missing the Halloween feast?”  
  
    “And why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” Ron wondered, frowning in puzzlement. “Depressing, innit?”  
  
    Dudley glanced at Nearly Headless Nick, who was chatting happily with Colin at the Gryffindor table. “What could it hurt? He didn’t say Harry had to stay for the whole thing,” he pointed out. “We can go, hang about for a while, tell this Podmore fellow how terrifying Nick is, and be back in plenty of time.”  
  
    The debate continued throughout dinner, but they all knew there was no other choice. They would all go to the deathday party, because Nearly Headless Nick was, above all, one of their own, being a Hogwarts ghost, and they couldn’t sit idle while some posh git snubbed him.  
  
  
    The Sunday before Halloween, Hagrid invited them all - including Ginny and her friends - down to his hut early in the morning to help carve pumpkins, which sounded like it would be nice and relaxing until they got there and discovered that the pumpkins were almost the size of Hagrid himself.  
  
    “How are we going to clean them out?” Dudley wondered, and regretted it a little when Hagrid cheerfully handed got out spades from his tool shed.  
  
    “Figger out what face yeh want,” the half giant advised them, grinning ear to ear. “Then draw it on with chalk an’ we’ll get started.”  
  
    This, naturally, prompted a bit of a kerfuffle over what to choose, with Hermione vetoing a reprisal of Harry’s now-infamous fanged Malfoy stick figure. Ron and Ginny came to the rescue, drawing a lopsided but nonetheless ferocious looking dragon that brought a fond tear to Hagrid’s eye.  
  
    It took several tries to draw the dragon - which Hermione named Norbert, in honor of the dragon Hagrid had hatched the year before - on the face of the pumpkin. The thing was so tall that Hagrid had to lift them up to draw the top bits. They took a break for muffins and hot spiced pumpkin juice from an enormous thermos, and Hagrid handed out carving knives which had been charmed for safety.  
  
    Dudley claimed a portion near the bottom, and watched with amusement as his friends negotiated over the rest. Hannah had a fierce but playful battle with Harry over the top bit until Hagrid settled it by putting out one of his stepladders, which was big enough that the both of them could sit on the top step.  
  
    As the children carved, Hagrid started on one of his own, cheerily humming as he alternated between carving and keeping an eye out on the students. Luna climbed partway up the stepladder to help with the higher bits, chatting amiably with no one in particular about a species of cockatrice that made its nest in pumpkins, and Colin was delegated to photographer after showing a complete lack of skill at cutting inside the lines. He seemed content with this, though, darting back and forth between pumpkins for the best shots, humming along tunelessly with Hagrid.  
  
    It was noon before the carving had finished, and they broke for lunch, which was thick pot roast sandwiches spread out on a picnic blanket near the pumpkin patch. Fang the boarhound flopped near the three first years, who had less experience with the type of sandwiches Hagrid made and were prone to dropping bits of roast by accident.  
  
    “How’s yer year been, then?” Hagrid asked, carefully slicing up an apple that looked tiny in his hands, especially compared to the enormous knife he was using. “Haven’t seen yeh around much!”  
  
    “Brilliant,” said Harry around a mouthful of sandwich.  
  
    “Snape’s giving us so much homework, though,” Ron moaned, setting off a long debate about homework that had Hagrid chuckling into his cup of pumpkin juice.  
  
    When they had finished lunch, they returned to the pumpkins and tidied up the fallen pieces they’d carved out. The dragon face looked more lopsided than it had originally, but they regarded it with great satisfaction. Hagrid started them off cleaning it out, scooping out enough of the pulp and seeds that one of them could get inside and start shoveling. After a vicious game of rock-paper-scissors, the dubious honor was awarded to Ginny, who dove in with unholy glee.  
  
    The others helped scoop from outside, and in no time, Harry and Luna joined her in the pumpkin, scraping and shoveling and trying not to bump into each other. Colin inadvertently started a war when he shook his hands to clear them of pulp and hit Ron right in the face with it, and before long, even Hagrid was covered in pumpkin guts.  
  
    The pulp and seeds was piled high in a bin Hagrid had set aside for this purpose, and he explained that most of it would go to the Hogwarts kitchens, though he’d keep the seeds for next year. At last, he deemed the pumpkin clean enough for candles, and instructed Hermione and Harry in charming the pumpkin for stability and freshness. They then charmed the pumpkin Hagrid had finished while they weren’t paying attention, and climbed in to peek out the eyes of the cheerily grinning face.  
  
    By the time they had finished cleaning up, the sun was starting to sink, and Hagrid wrapped up the rest of the sandwiches and put them in a basket for them to take with them. He walked them up to the castle, hauling the enormous bin of pumpkin pulp behind him, and they parted ways in the kitchens corridor.  
  
  
    The rest of the week went by in a blur. Dudley slept in on Halloween morning, and by the time he got up and went to catch the end of breakfast, decorations were already being put up in the Great Hall. This year, McGonagall and Flitwick were in charge as usual, but Callidora was assisting them, and seemed to be greatly enjoying putting up the bats.  
  
    “’Morning, Professor Bethwick,” Dudley called as she swooped by, poking the bats into place with gentle puffs of magic from her wand.  
  
    “Good morning, Dursley,” she replied, and was away, because the doors had opened and Hagrid was wrestling in a pumpkin.  
  
    The reminder of the deathday party put a bit of a damper on the rest of the day, mostly because they wouldn’t get any of the feast, but when they met up outside the dungeons, Hannah had brought a basket with her.  
  
    “I thought ghosts might be eating ghost food,” she explained, and they went to the party in better spirits.  
  
  
    The passage down had been lit with candles much like the ones in the Great Hall, though they were much gloomier. They were tall, thin black tapers burning with an eery blue flame, which cast a ghostly light over their faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took, and the farther they went, the more clearly they heard an odd sound from up ahead.  
  
    “Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered, wincing at the nails-on-chalkboard noise of it.  
  
    “I think so,” Harry whispered back uncertainly, drawing his robes tighter around himself.  
  
    They rounded the corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with heavy black velvet drapes. “My dear friends,” he said mournfully, “Welcome, welcome... So pleased you could come...” He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside. Hannah obligingly cowered from him as she passed, only mostly faking it, and they all pretended not to see him briefly light up with delight.  
  
    Their first sight of the party left them breathless, which Dudley was sure would please Nick when he heard. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly ghosts, most of which were drifting around the crowded dance floor. The source of the horrible noise was thirty musical saws being played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform, all of them looking terribly serious and dignified. A chandelier - and where on earth had it come from? - overhead bristled with more of the black candles, which did very little to actually light the room. It was, however, like stepping into a freezer, and all of them wished they’d worn their thicker winter robes.  
  
    “Shall we go have a look around?” Harry suggested tentatively, shuffling his feet.  
  
    “Careful not to walk through anyone,” Ron muttered, casting an anxious glance at the ghosts. Hannah, whose fingers had gone white-knuckled on the basket, uttered a small whimper, and stuck so close to Hermione that she nearly tripped her.  
  
    As they made their way around the edge of the dance floor, they passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains(discussing loudly with another ghost the merits of wearing them, his companion nodding along in a very bored fashion). The Fat Friar was talking animatedly to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead, and he waved brightly upon spotting them. Unsurprisingly, the Bloody Baron was hanging around in a corner, being given a wide berth by the other ghosts, and the group hurried past him.  
  
    They had almost reached the back wall when Hermione groaned. “Oh, no,” she said, slowing and trying to get them to turn round. “Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning Myrtle-”  
  
    “Who?” Neville asked as they abruptly changed course.  
  
    “She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor,” said Hermione, glancing over her shoulder.  
  
    “She haunts a toilet?” Harry asked, frowning as he tried to work out why anyone would want to.  
  
    “Yes, it’s been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place,” Hermione explained, sighing as she deemed them safe. “I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you-”  
  
    “Look, food!” Ron interrupted, delighted. “Guess we didn’t need to bring snacks after all.”  
  
    Further along the dungeon was a long buffet table, also draped in the heavy black velvet and adorned with impressive black candelabras. They group approached eagerly enough, but stopped in shock and disgust as soon as the smell reached them. Instead of the delicious setup they’d expected, there lay a feast of horrors. The polished silver dishes had all been arranged beautifully, even artistically, but upon the platters were enormous rotten fish, heaps of burnt cakes, and maggoty haggis. There were slabs of cheese covered in thick layers of mold in varying gruesome colors, tureens of what they suspected had once been soup but was now, likely, just sludge, and, sitting on a raised platform in the very middle, was an enormous gray cake in shape of a tombstone. Written on it in tar-like icing were the words,  
  
    Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington  
    Died 31st October, 1492  
  
    Dudley watched, feeling distinctly ill, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held so wide that it passed through one of the worse-looking salmon.  
  
    “Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked, sounding horrified but intrigued.  
  
    “Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and drifted away.  
  
    “I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Hermione, pinching her nose and peering curiously at the haggis.  
  
    Dudley sidled down the table a ways, inspecting a bowl of fruit so old and rotted that it was barely recognizable. As he stared down at it, trying to figure out what was what, a ghostly presence at his elbow made him look up. A tall, slender ghost in a long cloak looked quietly down at him with hooded eyes, and said quietly, “You smell like death.”  
  
    That seemed a bit rude, considering. “Er, sorry?” Dudley said, puzzled.  
  
    Instead of answering, the ghost merely stared at him before leaning down to the table and passing its open mouth over a display of cakes. Dudley carefully retreated back to his friends.  
  
    “Let’s move,” Neville was suggesting as he returned. “There’s tables further on, we can set up there.” As if any of them wanted to eat after seeing the buffet.  
  
    They made it to one of the tables without incident, and Hannah, who looked like she wanted to either vomit or run screaming, eyed Harry balefully. “You’re lucky,” she mumbled. “So lucky.” Dudley didn’t miss her implied threat to aim for him if she felt sick, and by the look on Harry’s face, he didn’t miss it either.  
  
    Harry sheepishly took a seat. “Sorry.”  
  
    No sooner had they all sat down than a tiny ghost swooped up at them from nowhere, and as one being, they eyed him warily. “Hello, Peeves,” said Harry.  
  
    “Nibbles?” Peeves asked sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bowtie, and a broad grin on his nasty little face. Beneath his concern, Dudley wondered why his outfit didn’t turn white and ghostly like the rest of the ghosts’ outfits did.  
  
    “No thanks,” said Hermione, and Peeves’ attention turned to her, his eyes alight with mischief.  
  
    “Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” he said slyly. “Rude you was about poor Myrtle.” Hermione frantically motioned for him to stay quiet, eyes huge, but it was in vain. “OY, MYRTLE!”  
  
    “Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be really upset,” Hermione whispered desperately. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind her- er! Hello, Myrtle.”  
  
    The short ghost of a girl had glided over, expression glum behind her thick glasses. “What?” she said sulkily.  
  
    “How are you, Myrtle?” Hermione asked with false cheer. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.”  
  
    “Miss Granger was just talking about you,” Peeves whispered to Myrtle.  
  
    “Just- just saying how nice you look tonight!” said Hermione, glaring at Peeves, and she elbowed Ron, who was closest. “Wasn’t I?”  
  
    They all scrambled to agree, trying to avert Myrtle’s growing unhappiness, but Dudley’s attention was caught by a flash of red. He stared intently at the dancers, but saw no further sign of it, and turned back to the table just in time to see Myrtle flee, sobbing loudly as Peeves followed, chucking peanuts at her and gleefully shouting, “Pimply! Pimply!”  
  
    “Oh, dear,” said Hermione miserably.  
  
  
    Nearly Headless Nick drifted over about the time they decided they’d recovered enough to eat, and he hovered anxiously at the table. “Enjoying yourselves?” he asked as half of them took strategic bites of cake.  
  
    “Very much,” said Neville, as earnestly as he could, and they all nodded in agreement.  
  
    “Not a bad turnout,” said the ghost with satisfaction. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent.” He waved at the ghost in question, and she morosely waved a handkerchief in response. “It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go warn the orchestra-”  
  
    At that moment, however, the orchestra abruptly stopped, and everyone else looked about in excitement as a hunting horn sounded.  
  
    “Oh, here we go,” said Nick bitterly, and folded his arms as a dozen ghost horses burst through the wall behind the orchestra. They galloped regally onto the dance floor amidst enthusiastic applause, each ridden by a headless horseman, and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the procession was a large ghost with his bearded head tucked under his elbow, from which position he was blowing the horn.  
  
    The ghost leapt down and lifted his head high so he could look over the crowd(which laughed a little too hard at it, Dudley thought), and made his way over to Nick in several brisk strides, plonking his head back onto his neck. “Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?” He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.  
  
    “Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly, but was ignored, because at that moment, Sir Patrick had spotted Dudley and the others.  
  
    “Live ‘uns!” he cried, giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment that knocked his head off and sent it rolling onto the dance floor. The crowd roared with laughter again, and someone tossed the head back. Sir Patrick caught it and made quirked it to them as if nodding in thanks, then replaced it.  
  
    “Very amusing,” Nick muttered darkly.  
  
    “Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick. “Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say - look at the fellow-”  
  
    Harry opened his mouth, but Hannah, who seemed about at her nerves’ end, piped up fiercely, “I think Nick’s perfectly horrifying!”  
  
    “Ha!” Sir Patrick chortled. “Bet he asked you to say that!”  
  
    Neville quickly grabbed Hannah, who had jumped up and tried to climb over the table to get at the ghost. “He didn’t!” she shouted. “And he set up this very nice party-” she jerked free of Neville, who fell off his chair with a quiet _oof_. Undeterred, Hannah stomped round the table and right up to Sir Patrick, who wore a look of comical surprise on his face. She jabbed a finger at him, saying loudly in a wobbly voice, “-and you’re being rude!” She sniffed, loudly and wetly, and the surprise on Sir Patrick’s face turned slowly to horror. “You’re just a big- a big bully, and you’re not scary at _all_!” And she stomped her foot, the sound echoing in the dead silence, before breaking into slightly hysterical sobbing.  
  
    All at once, Harry jumped in, literally leaping off his chair. “She’s right!” he shouted. “What’s so impressive about the Hunt anyway?” Like a dam breaking, the rest of them got up and started shouting too, and shortly thereafter, several ghosts chimed in, and before long, there was something like a riot on the dance floor. The ghost horses danced nervously, and Sir Patrick was too shocked by the sudden turn of events to say a word.  
  
    Just as amazed was Nearly Headless Nick, but after a while, he waded into the fray, and between him and the Fat Friar, got everyone settled down in fairly short order. Hannah, hiccuping weakly, was guided back to the table by the Widow, who patted her hair gently.  
  
    “Well,” said Nearly Headless Nick seriously, though there was a distinct note of dry humor in his voice, “Sir Patrick, I appreciate your stopping by, but I’m sure you’re terribly busy, and I wouldn’t wish to keep you from tonight’s hauntings elsewhere.”  
  
    “Indeed,” said Sir Patrick stiffly. “Good evening.” He harrumphed, then got back on his horse, and the Hunt rode out so straight-backed and offended-looking that they looked like toy soldiers.  
  
    Nearly Headless Nick waited a few beats til he was sure they had gone, then gestured for the orchestra to play and turned back to the second years. “I think the speech can wait,” he said wryly, then looked at Hannah in concern. “Are you all right, Miss Abbott?”  
  
    “Yeah,” Hannah mumbled, sniffling. “Sorry.”  
  
    “Don’t be,” Nick said reassuringly. “You were wonderful. All of you were-” He choked a little, eyes glowing with emotion. “I appreciate it.”  
  
    “We’ve probably ruined your chances at getting into the hunt,” Harry said, grimacing. “Sorry, Nick.”  
  
    Dudley let out a gusty sigh. “Sir Patrick’s probably going to give you a harder time now.”  
  
    The ghost flapped a hand dismissively. “Pish, I don’t have a chance so long as he’s in charge anyway,” he said, with less bitterness than usual. “Don’t you worry. But it is getting late, and I think you’ve all had enough excitement. Thank you all for coming, truly.”  
  
  
    They said goodbye, then packed up the basket and gratefully left the room, waving awkwardly at a few of the ghosts and exiting through the dark curtains with great relief.  
  
    “Pudding might not be finished yet,” suggested Ron as he led the way out of the dungeons.  
  
    “I think I’d rather go to bed,” said Neville fervently.  
  
    Harry opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly, a strange look coming over him. Before anyone could ask, he had pressed himself to the wall, face screwed up in concentration.  
  
    “Harry, what’re you-?” Ron began, but Harry shushed him.  
  
    “Listen!” he said urgently, and they all froze. Dudley slowed his breathing, but he couldn’t hear anything until Harry broke the quiet by shouting, “It’s going to kill someone!”  
  
    He was off like a shot, and they snapped out of their shock to hurry after him. Harry flew up the next flight of steps three at a time, and they almost lost him on the second floor, he was moving so quickly. The group of them hurtled round a corner and into a deserted passage, collapsing in a shrieking pile when Harry stopped abruptly.  
  
    “Harry,” Neville groaned, carefully getting up, “what was that all about?”  
  
    “I couldn’t hear anything,” Ron gasped in agreement, wiping sweat from his face.  
  
    But Hermione gasped sharply, then pointed down the corridor. “Look!”  
  
    Warily, they all got up and, leaving the fallen basket where it was, slowly made their way towards the wall at the end of the corridor, which shone strangely in the dim light. Finally, when they were close enough to make out what it was, they stopped and gaped in astonishment.  
  
    Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the nearby torches, and read,  
  
    THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED, ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.  
  
    Hannah uttered a choked noise. “What’s that underneath?” she whimpered. Harry stepped towards it, and almost slipped in a large puddle of water.  
  
    “Is that Mrs. Norris?” he said aloud, just before the post-feast crowd turned the corner.  
  
  
    A short time later, they found themselves crammed into Lockhart’s office with Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Lockhart himself, and a distraught Filch. It was quite a squeeze, and the second years crowded miserably against the wall outside the ring of candle light, watching Dumbledore and McGonagall inspect poor Mrs. Norris, leaning in so close their noses were practically brushing her fur. Snape loomed behind them, wearing an odd expression that looked almost like he was suppressing a smile.  
  
    On the other hand, Lockhart was fluttering about, offering suggestions like, “It was definitely a curse that killed her - probably the Transmogrifian Torture - I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there-”  
  
    Filch, who was slumped on a chair by the desk, uttered a terrible keening sob with each one.  
  
    It took ages, and by the time Dumbledore straightened, the children were all struggling to keep their eyes open. Fortunately, he had good news. “She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly, putting up his wand.  
  
    This had the unexpected benefit of stopping Lockhart in the middle of counting the number of murders he’d prevented, and Filch looked up through his fingers at his poor cat. “Not dead?” he choked. “But why’s she all - all stiff and frozen?”  
  
    “She has been petrified,” said Dumbledore solemnly, ignoring an outburst from Lockhart. “Though how, I cannot say.”  
  
    Filch turned an enraged face towards the children, who found themselves very suddenly wide awake when he shrieked, “Ask him!” He pointed wildly at Harry, whose eyes went huge in alarm.  
  
    “No second year could have done this,” Dumbledore said firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced-”  
  
    “He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, practically frothing with rage. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found - in my office - he knows I’m a- I’m a-” His mouth worked horribly for a moment. “He knows I’m a Squib!”  
  
    “I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, clenching his fists. “And I don’t care you’re a Squib, there’s loads of ‘em where I live, and I like them just fine!” This startled Filch into silence, but he seemed unconvinced, clenching and unclenching his hands in fury.  
  
    “If I may, Headmaster,” said Snape wryly from the shadows, “Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He raised an eyebrow. “Though it is rather suspicious that they were none of them at the feast.”  
  
    “We were at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party,” said Hermione without hesitation, and they all launched into the story.  
  
    It took several tries and by the end of the telling, McGonagall looked half like she’d swallowed something sour and half like she wanted to laugh. Snape’s expression had turned decidedly stony, and Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling. “And then I wanted to just go to bed,” Hannah finished for them, “but Hermione had one of my books and I thought we could make a trip of it, you know, and I wanted to have a peek in the Gryffindor common room.” She put in a sniffle or two for good measure, though she was definitely faking this time.  
  
    “Well,” said Dumbledore at length, “there’s your answer, Severus.”  
  
    “Headmaster-” Snape began, but stopped at a look from the older wizard and settled back into the shadows, looking as if all his fun had been spoiled.  
  
    “As for Mrs. Norris,” said Dumbledore, turning back to Filch, “As soon as Professor Sprout’s mandrakes have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive her. Not to worry, Argus.” And he patted the caretaker’s shoulder.  
  
    “I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “Must’ve done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep-”  
  
    “Excuse me,” said Snape so coldly that the children felt compelled to check the ceiling for icicles, “but I believe I am the Potions Master at this school.”  
  
    There was a very awkward pause in which eye contact was desperately avoided.  
  
    Dumbledore gently cleared his throat. “You may go,” he said to the children, who gratefully fled without a single backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I got excited and typed this out in one sitting before work yesterday! I thought about saving it a couple days first but nah.


	9. Bludgeoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Been a little while but here we are! Hoping to have 10 up later this month.
> 
> Also; I drew [Ariana](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/post/126217424386/)!

** CHAPTER NINE **

  
  
    Unbeknownst to the others, Dudley came up with a plan that very night to find out what, exactly, Harry was hearing. As far as plans went, it was a bit rash and probably not going to help, in the end, but it was the only thing he could think to do. He had to have a look at the castle’s magic.  
  
    This thought preoccupied him all the way back to Hufflepuff, and so while Neville and Hannah - who had gone so far past uncomfortable and scared that she’d looped back round to a sort of manic cheer - set up camp in the common room with the rest of their Housemates, Dudley slipped off to his dorm room. The only other person inside was Justin, who had drawn the curtains on his bed and was, he hoped, asleep.  
  
    As quietly as he could, Dudley changed into pyjamas and climbed onto his own bed, tugging the curtains closed. He shoved at the blankets until he had space to sit cross-legged without being at a weird angle, then settled into a relaxed position and closed his eyes.  
  
    His first reflex these days was to check on his mental book - well, books, now, for all that the second wasn’t wanting to function properly - but this time, he only glanced at the covers before putting them from his mind. Instead, he focused inward, searching through the darkness for the tiny glimmer of warmth that was his magical core.  
  
    The last time he had looked at it was in the velvet-lined interior of the car to Diagon Alley the previous year. It had been warm and he’d mostly been thinking of Padma, and it had led to a great deal of conflicted emotion. Dudley took a slow, deep breath, and let it out easily before turning his attention away from the little bead of power. When he had looked at the spells on the car, they had seemed like lines of bright, intense light, and he decided to brace himself. Hogwarts, he figured, would have a lot more going on.  
  
    This in mind, he carefully stretched his senses to look at the castle.  
  
    Dudley didn’t immediately realize his mistake, mostly because his surroundings lit up so brightly that his first, frantic thought was that he’d somehow stared into the sun instead. With some effort, he swallowed the bile that rose up in his throat and wrenched his gaze away. Immediately, everything went dark, and the smell of smoke assaulted him as he toppled over onto the mattress. He lay there for a long moment, gasping and choking, before his eyes began to clear and he could make out the curtains.  
  
    Gradually, he eased himself back up, arms shaking from shock or pain, and reached out to the bedside table for his wand. It took several tries before his fingers brushed cool wood, to his consternation. Then it was a matter of conjuring light, which took about five minutes because he couldn’t seem to focus beyond the dark spots still jumping in the fore of his vision. At last, however, a dim glow filled the small space, and Dudley sighed in relief even though it made his eyes ache with remembrance of the castle’s brightness.  
  
    “Should take it a little easier,” he muttered, scratching his cheek. “But if I can’t look at it, how can I find what Harry’s hearing?”  
  
    As he absently reached out to yank the twisted blankets into some semblance of order, Dudley froze, staring in consternation. The blankets were singed in a circle, one that he knew he had been sitting in. It wasn’t a clean circle, all lopsided and crumpled in places, but it was too perfect to be anything else, and what kind of fire burns in a circle anyway? For that matter, when had there been a fire?  
  
    It was no coincidence, that much he knew, but the events of the night were finally catching up, so Dudley decided to worry about it in the morning. He let his light go out and put the wand back on his bedside table, then pushed the blankets about until he could curl up under a spot that hadn’t been burnt.  
  
  
    The next night, Dudley waited until everyone else had fallen asleep before creeping out of bed. He quietly made his way into the bathroom, locking the door, then drew a piece of chalk from his pocket before kneeling and beginning to draw a lopsided circle around himself on the tile. He didn’t dare turn on a light, but he figured that the circle didn’t have to be perfect, so long as it was closed. When he was satisfied, he put the chalk away and sat, taking care not to smudge the chalk. _Okay,_ he thought to himself. _Let’s see how this goes._  
  
    He closed his eyes and settled, relaxing and letting himself drift, ignoring the pounding of his heart. Soon enough, his books appeared in his mind’s eye, and he gave them a cursory once-over before moving on to check on his magical core. There was no reason to, but watching that little light for a while helped him calm down. Finally, he slowly turned his gaze outward. Where before he had eagerly stared into the castle’s magic, he now squinted cautiously. The glimmer of it was just ahead, and he edged towards it, not wanting a repeat of the last time. It grew ever brighter, and soon, he was close enough to begin to pick out vague patterns. Dudley began to open his mind’s eye a little wider, ready to get a better look-  
  
   _FLASH!_  
  
    With a muffled yelp, Dudley fell back on his elbows, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes until he realized that the flash hadn’t been from the castle’s magic this time. Coughing and waving away the wispy smoke, he saw with surprise that the line of chalk was now ash. “I thought chalk wasn’t flammable,” he whispered, staring. “Okay. Maybe ink next time.”  
  
  
    “Professor!”  
  
    Beckwith looked up from her writing, anticipating a question about the puzzles she’d handed out at the beginning of class, but she must have seen something on Hannah’s face, because her expression turned wary. “Yes, Abbott?”  
  
    Hannah lowered her hand and said, “Sorry, but do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”  
  
    The rest of the class swiveled as one being to look at her, then turned their gaze on Professor Bethwick. She didn’t sigh, but her mouth twitched a bit as if she was tempted to. She sat back in her chair, tapping her chin with her quill, then said, “I can see that none of you will be able to focus unless I answer.”  
  
    There were some scattered nods, and Professor Bethwick set her quill down, eyes crinkling a little in amusement. “At least you’re honest,” she remarked dryly, then sat up straight and folded her hands over her paperwork. “So I will be honest in turn; I, unfortunately, know very little myself. I do know that there are rumors about the Chamber opening some fifty years ago, but I suspect it was less to do with an actual hidden room and more to do with a magical creature getting loose in the castle.” She looked thoughtful a moment, then added, “I seem to remember that the legend said something about Slytherin having built it, but Professor Binns would know more than I. But if you ask him, please know that most of our knowledge of the Founders is hearsay. Very little of their lives is actually documented.”  
  
    She glanced at her wrist, where something shimmery hovered just above her skin, then said, “Now, you’ve fifteen more minutes to work on your puzzles, and then we’ll have independent study. I’ll be coming around to check on each of you, and if you’ve any questions, let me know.”  
  
    Reluctantly, the class settled back into their work, knowing that any whispering would be shut down by the professor, though many a significant look were exchanged. Hannah prodded her puzzle, which sparked gently in reprimand, and hoped Binns would know more.  
  
    They didn’t get the chance to suggest it to the Gryffindors but luckily, Hermione had had a similar idea, and asked Binns anyway. She related the story over dinner, which was taken at the Gryffindor table, and the three Hufflepuffs listened attentively.  
  
    “Professor Bethwick said it was supposed to have opened ages ago,” said Neville thoughtfully.  
  
    “Wouldn’t it be famous if it did?” Hermione wondered. “How would they keep it out of the papers?” She gave herself a sudden shake. “Anyway, listen, we accidentally went back to the corridor, and it was awfully strange.”  
  
    “Strange how?” asked Hannah, nibbling absently on a bit of potato.  
  
    Hermione darted a glance around, but no one was listening, so she said, quietly, “We found scorch marks, and there were a load of spiders all fighting to get out the window through a crack.” Ron shuddered at the mention of spiders, jarring her elbow, and Hermione got the pinched look of someone trying not to laugh. She cleared her throat. “Then we realized all the water - you remember - had come from the girls’ bathroom that Myrtle haunts. We went to talk to her, but she hadn’t seen anything, and then Percy shouted at us when we came out. Well,” Hermione amended, “shouted at Ron, really.”  
  
    Dudley frowned and speared a meatball with his fork. “The spiders... that really is weird. Maybe we should keep an eye on that.”  
  
    “There have been an awful lot of them lately,” Hannah murmured. Just that morning, in fact, she’d seen one lazing on her bedside table, and she’d had to be very careful pulling her necklace from under its web. It had been hanging around for at least a week, though, and it didn’t seem to be doing anything strange.  
  
  
    More important were the rumors that were springing up about Harry being the Heir. As if Filch stalking red-eyed through the corridors and trying to put them in detention for excessive cheer or scratching their nose wasn’t enough, no one had missed how a lot of his aggression was aimed at Harry. Add that to the fact that nearly everyone had seen Harry and his friends at the scene of the crime and no one but the teachers had heard the conversation in Lockhart’s office, and it wasn’t surprising everyone jumped to the same conclusion.  
  
    Some people were even going so far as to avoid Harry in the halls - even Justin, who usually wouldn’t shut up when Harry was in earshot, was going out of his way not to be seen near him. Not even Cedric telling him off had seemed to do much good.  
  
    “Sorry, Harry,” said Cedric at lunch one day as half his house eyed the Gryffindor with mistrust. “Dunno what’s gotten into some of them, honestly.”  
  
    “It’s okay,” Harry mumbled into his food, and hoped grimly that this would blow over quickly.  
  
  
    The next day, the six of them convened in the library to study. They had only been there a few minutes before Hermione, to everyone’s surprise, closed her copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. “Who _can_ it be, though?” she whispered, rubbing her temples.  
  
    Ron, all too pleased to close his own book, leaned back and eyed her. “Let’s see,” he said, tapping his chin in feigned puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks Muggleborns are scum?”  
  
    “Malfoy,” said Hermione and Hannah immediately, but Hermione added, “I don’t think he’s got the spine, though.”  
  
    “Come on, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “Just this year he’s called you a- a you know, and didn’t you see his smug face when he saw us on Halloween?”  
  
    “Actually, he looked kind of sick,” said Harry. “But I can’t think of anyone else.”  
  
    Neville, who was leaning back in his chair and balancing his quill on his nose, said, “Maybe the rest of Slytherin?”  
  
    There were sounds of agreement before Dudley slowly pointed out, “Okay, but they don’t all seem bad. Sure, their Quidditch team is full of jerks, and, I mean, Malfoy and his friends, but everyone else is pretty normal. And Malfoy is only in second year, what’s he gonna do?”  
  
    A silence came over the group as everyone digested this. “True enough,” said Hannah. “Maybe it’s someone on the team then?”  
  
    “Has anyone on the Slytherin team been acting weird?” Hermione asked Harry, who looked at her a bit as if she’d grown another head.  
  
    “I dunno,” he said, “I don’t exactly take tea with them.”  
  
    “They do seem pretty pleased with themselves lately,” Neville observed.  
  
    Ron sighed and rested his elbows on his book. “The real question is, how do we find out who it is?”  
  
    They fell silent as Madam Pince walked by with a pile of books, returning them to the shelves with her wand. Once she’d disappeared into the stacks, Hannah said, “We need a spy.”  
  
    “But who?” Ron asked. “If any of us does it and gets seen, it could get our teams in trouble.”  
  
    “Colin,” said Harry, and they all looked at him in surprise. “Think about it! He’s always taking pictures of everything, no one even notices it anymore unless the camera flash gets in their eyes.”  
  
    “True,” admitted Hermione, warming to the idea. “But can he keep a secret?”  
  
    “Only one way to find out,” said Dudley.  
  
  
_Rustle._  
  
    Hannah rolled over with a groan, pressing her face into her pillow. _Susan, go back to sleep,_ she thought, a little crankily. Her friend was always one of the first people awake, but though she was as quiet about it as she could be, Hannah was a very light sleeper.  
  
_Rustle rustle._  
  
   _Ugh,_ Hannah thought, then froze as something brushed against her ear. _What was that?_ It moved, and Hannah jerked up, heart pounding. She fumbled for her wand, then cast a quick _lumos_. At first, as her eyes adjusted, she didn’t see anything out of place, and she sighed tiredly.  
  
    “Just a dream,” she muttered in relief. Then she looked again and swallowed a shriek, dropping the wand. There were spiders all over her bed; dangling from the canopy, clinging to her blankets, all of them staring at her. She scooted back against the headboard, breathing hard, and caught sight of herself. Her pyjamas were covered in scuttling spiders, and this time Hannah did scream. She flung her blanket off and scrambled out of bed, trying to shake the spiders off, and got tangled in the curtains. With a yelp, she crashed to the floor, taking them with her, and the lights flicked on.  
  
    “Are you okay?” Susan asked, coming to help her up.  
  
    “S-spiders-” Hannah stammered, struggling free of the curtains and getting to her feet. She tripped again, and Susan caught her before she fell.  
  
    “What spiders?” asked Leanne Cotterill. She and Willa Hopkins had wandered over and were now poking cautiously at Hannah’s blanket.  
  
    Hannah opened her mouth, then shut it again as she realized there were no spiders in sight. “Um.”  
  
    Willa leaned forward and picked something up. “Here’s one,” she said, cupping her hands. “Right next to the pillow. I’ll put it out the window,” she added kindly, and went to do so. Leanne groaned loudly, dropping the corner of blanket she’d lifted.  
  
    “I’m going back to bed,” she declared, shooting Hannah a disgusted look. “Megan is so lucky she can sleep through this. Try to keep your nightmares to yourself, _Abbott_.”  
  
    Wilting, Hannah looked back at her bed, biting her lip. Suddenly, Ron’s fear of spiders didn’t seem so silly. “Right,” she said. “Sorry.” Leanne drew the curtains with a huff, and there was a gentle clack as Willa closed the window.  
  
    “You okay?” Susan asked quietly, helping Hannah step over the fallen curtains and sit on her bed.  
  
    Sighing, Hannah rubbed her face. “Yeah. Um, sorry.”  
  
    “Don’t worry about it,” said Susan, smiling. “I wake you up all the time.” She gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Try and get some more sleep.” She reached down and, standing on her toes, managed to hold the drapes up high enough for them to hook back onto the frame, magic flickering around them as it fixed the damage.  
  
    “Thanks,” Hannah murmured, picking up her wand. “G’night, Susan.”  
  
    “’Night,” her friend replied, returning to her own bed, and tugged her curtains shut. Shortly after, the lights went out again.  
  
    The _lumos_ spell hadn’t gone off, so Hannah muttered the counterspell, flicking her wand at it. Reaching out, she set her wand on her side table as quietly as she could - and realized her necklace wasn’t there. Throat seizing with panic, she fumbled for it, then started searching her bed. When it didn’t turn up, she leaned down to check the floor, only to feel the pendant slip free of her shirt. Feeling foolish, Hannah sat back up and pulled the necklace off, then set it on the side table beside her wand. She stared at it for a long moment as she calmed herself down, watching it shine in the moonlight, and was about to lay down when movement caught her eye. As Hannah watched, a single spider cautiously emerged from the darkness and settled beside the necklace.  
  
_Okay,_ she thought. _There’s definitely something going on here._  
  
  
    By Saturday, they hadn’t learned anything new about the Slytherin team, and Hannah was acting oddly twitchy. Between that, the continuing rumors, and homework, Harry wasn’t surprised that the day of the first Quidditch match had snuck up on him. He might have forgotten entirely, except Ron had remembered and told him the night before.  
  
    He sat in the locker room before the game, only half listening to Oliver’s usual pre-match pep talk, plucking absently at his scarlet uniform. Beside him, George muttered under his breath about not having felt dry since August, and then Wood rounded on Harry, which was alarming enough that he snapped to attention. “It’ll be down to you, Harry,” said the captain, eyes alight with determination, “to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father.” Harry bit back the urge to point out his parents had left him a lot of money - he got the point. “Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”  
  
    “So no pressure,” said Fred cheerfully, giving Harry’s shoulders a squeeze as George winked.  
  
    They heart the noise of the crowd long before they set foot on the pitch, but it turned into a roar as they came into view. Aside from their own House, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, and the Slytherins, naturally, were booing and hissing as loud as they could. Harry squinted, trying to spot his friends, and finally found them squashed between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff seats, waving little flags enthusiastically.  
  
    As Wood and Flint shook hands a touch more aggressively than they needed to, the crowd died down, and Madam Hooch stepped forward as the boys separated. “On my whistle,” she said, and gave the countdown. At the shriek of her whistle, the fourteen players shot up into the sky, settling into their positions. Harry pulled up above the lot, scanning the pitch and blocking out the noise from below.  
  
    Malfoy cruised by, showing off his broom’s speed, sneering at him and calling, “All right, Scarhead?” over his shoulder, but Harry didn’t even notice, because no sooner had Malfoy passed than a heavy black Bludger rocketed towards him. Harry let his broom drop, ducking, and felt the ball ruffle his hair as it passed.  
  
    George streaked past, calling cheerily out to him, and gave the Bludger a solid whack towards Adrien Pucey. Harry straightened up in time to see it reverse course and shoot straight back, and hastily dodged it, eyes wide. “What’s going on with it?” he shouted to George as the older boy chased the Bludger and beat it towards Malfoy.  
  
    “Dunno!” George replied. “Look out, it’s coming back!”  
  
    He just clipped it with his bat, and had to duck as it did little to change the Bludger’s course. Harry quickly went into a short dive to gain speed, then made for the other end of the pitch, not daring to glance back even when he heard the Bludger whistling after him. Fred popped up and waved him over, and Harry changed course abruptly to fly past him. He heard a _thock!_ as Fred hit the Bludger away, followed by the Weasley’s triumphant yell, but it was only a brief reprieve. Uttering a frustrated groan, Harry shot upwards, trying to shake the Bludger from his tail.  
  
    “This is _stupid_ ,” he groused as rain began to fall, and looked down at the pitch below. Through the wind, he heard Lee call out the score - Slytherin leading 60-0 - and with a grunt, abruptly changed course, diving back down at the game. He only had a vague idea, but it was better than nothing. Squinting through his rain-splattered glasses, Harry flew right at one of the Slytherin beaters, who was sitting off to the side, aiming not for the boy but for the tail of his broom. At the last second, he dodged around and pulled up, and heard a yelp and a crunch as the Bludger connected with the broom’s end. Harry glanced back and saw that the damage wasn’t bad - the Bludger had followed his path just a little too well - but the broom definitely wouldn’t be moving as well. The beater saw him and gaped, not sure what had happened. Bludgers were supposed to knock people about, but this one was very obviously following Harry.  
  
    The Weasleys pulled up, George knocking the Bludger away as they did. “All right, Harry?” Fred shouted. “We need to call for time out, this thing’s obviously been tampered with!”  
  
    Harry started to agree, but then he shook his head violently. “Can’t afford it!” he shouted back. “We’ll have to forfeit!” He ducked as the Bludger returned, and Fred sent it flying again. “Look, don’t worry about me, I’ll just avoid it til I can get the Snitch!”  
  
    Grimacing, the twins shared a look. “Okay,” George said aloud, “I’ll stick with you and try to keep it off you, and Fred can handle the other one.”  
  
    Fred saluted, then dropped down to the rest of the game before Harry could protest. Swallowing anxiety and rainwater, he called to George, “Let’s try and knock some Slytherins about!”  
  
    Without missing a beat, George struck the incoming Bludger, sending it tumbling away, and they dove down, winding through the game and looping around the Slytherin players, ignoring the shouts of alarm, and when the Bludger caught up, George hit it towards Pucey again. This time, they were close enough that it clipped the front of Pucey’s broom, spinning him about. They ducked underneath the game, Harry keeping an eye out for a flash of gold, then flew back up close to Malfoy, forcing him to skitter away as the Bludger followed them. George circled above Harry, letting up on speed just long enough to beat the ball away again.  
  
    In the meantime, the rest of their team was hard at work beating Slytherin back, and the next time Lee called out the score, the two teams were about even. Bolstered by their team’s success, Harry and George spiraled up, then back down, making another pass through the Slytherin lines and letting the Bludger wreak havoc behind them. When they were in the clear, George knocked it away again, striking it hard enough that they had a moment to rest. Harry, frantically scanning the pitch, saw a flash of gold. The Snitch flickered just past Malfoy’s head, the Slytherin glaring back at him. As Harry hesitated, not wanting to give it away, he saw something change on Malfoy’s face about the same time he heard George shout, and he twisted around. The Bludger clipped his elbow, sending a bright burst of pain up his arm, and George chased after it.  
  
    Gritting his teeth, Harry decided that this was it, and shot forward. Before long, he heard the Bludger whistling after him again, and he twisted around the other players, hoping it might throw the Bludger off long enough for him to get the Snitch. There was a crack behind him as someone hit it, and he hissed through his teeth.  
  
    Below him, he saw Malfoy’s eyes widen as he realized Harry’s trajectory. Clearly remembering Harry and George divebombing him before, he quickly moved away, and to Harry’s relief, the Snitch stayed where it was. At the last possible second, Harry reached out and grabbed the Snitch out of the air, only to have to quickly reel his arm in as the Bludger swooped down at it. Startled, Harry had to brake quickly before he crashed, and as he turned his broom, the Bludger slammed full-force into his leg. Harry sucked in a harsh breath as he felt his leg break, and barely had the presence of mind to keep a tight hold on the Snitch. Vision blurring from the pain, he sat, gasping and shaking, and only dimly registered the Bludger coming right back at him. Before it could strike, however, someone pulled him out of the way, hauling him down towards the grass. Next thing Harry knew, he was sliding from his broom and crying out as his leg struck the ground.  
  
    “We win?” he asked blurrily as people crowded around him, remembering the Snitch in his hand. Someone gently pried it out of his fingers, and he resisted only for a moment before he was distracted by glittering teeth. “Oh, no,” Harry moaned as Lockhart crouched beside him, “not _you_.”  
  
    “Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the students clustered around him. “Not to worry, Harry, I’m about to fix your leg.” There was a familiar click.  
  
    Harry struggled to sit up, but collapsed as he put pressure on his elbow. “N-no, it’s fine, really- Colin, please don’t take a picture-” The clicking stopped, a little sheepishly. He spared a moment to wonder how that was possible, and then Lockhart was rolling up his pants leg to assess the damage. “Can’t I just - go to the hospital wing?”  
  
    “Professor, really-” said Cedric, emerging from the crowd, but was immediately shushed.  
  
    “Not to worry,” Lockhart said brightly, and before anyone else could protest, had twirled his wand and flourished it at Harry’s leg. A strange creeping sensation started at Harry’s hip and worked down to the toes of his injured leg, making Harry desperately fight the urge to throw up. It felt like his leg was being inflated, or maybe turned to jelly, and there were shrieks and gasps and Colin’s camera clicking away not a moment later. The pain stopped, at least, but his leg definitely didn’t feel fixed.  
  
    “Ah,” said Lockhart, and Harry swallowed down the panic - or maybe it was bile - rising in his throat. He forced himself up on his undamaged elbow to look down, and this time he lost the battle. He turned and heaved until his stomach was empty.  
  
    “Professor Lockhart!” came a stern voice, and Callidora’s pointed shoes stopped a few paces to the left of Harry’s ear. “What, _exactly_ , did you think you were doing?” A band of energy that smelled like mint and cranberries wrapped around Harry’s poor leg, and Hufflepuff yellow swam into his vision.  
  
    “Here, Harry,” said Cedric, and cast a quick cleaning spell on him. Harry was grateful, for all that his mouth still felt disgusting and his stomach was still lurching, and then he was being lifted carefully into the air.  
  
    “Diggory, come with me,” Professor McGonagall ordered, her wand trained on Harry, who felt immensely relieved to see her. “Wood, Flint, go with Madam Hooch to her office. I will be back to sort this mess out.” Comforted by the fact that someone competent had him, Harry almost gladly passed out.  
  
  
    Madam Pomfrey was not pleased. “Unbelievable,” she muttered as Harry blinked awake. He now wore pyjamas, and had been laid out on one of the beds. Cedric stood nearby, and smiled encouragingly.  
  
    At Harry’s questioning look, he explained, “Professor McGonagall thought Madam Pomfrey might need an extra pair of hands.” That didn’t explain why she’d chosen _Cedric_ , but Harry kept it to himself. It might have been because Cedric was the only prefect at hand. “She’s got to regrow your bones - Lockhart’s gone and vanished them completely.”  
  
    The blood drained from Harry’s face as his worries were confirmed, and Madam Pomfrey tutted. “Don’t scare him,” she scolded, then tapped her wand gently to Harry’s elbow. The ache in it diminished immediately, and she busied herself pouring Skele-Gro into a beaker. “It is nasty business, Mr. Potter, you’re in for a rough night. Your leg will be fine by morning, but I want you to stay in bed til noon, give it time to rest.”  
  
    He swallowed down the horrible potion, which he barely managed not to throw up, and Cedric helped him gulp down some water as Madam Pomfrey retreated, muttering darkly about inept teachers and dangerous sports. “Brilliant catch, though,” Cedric said, setting the water glass down. “And I can’t believe you got down to the field without getting hurt.”  
  
    Harry frowned, puzzled. “I thought someone helped me,” he said slowly. “I could’ve sworn someone grabbed my broom.”  
  
    Cedric looked just as bemused. “I didn’t see anyone. I was already on my way down, though,” he admitted, “so I could’ve missed it.”  
  
    At that moment, the door burst open, and the sight of his friends and teammates wiped the thought from Harry’s brain. “Sorry, Harry,” said George immediately, stopping at the foot of the bed. “I got distracted by the other Bludger, and by the time I got back on track, you’d already gone down.” He and the rest of the team were still a mess, splattered with mud and grass as well as drenched from the rain.  
  
    “Don’t worry about it,” said Harry hastily. “I did go off unexpectedly.”  
  
    “On the bright side,” Fred interjected, unloading an armful of sweets onto the side table, “that was some fantastic flying, and I’ve just seen Flint giving Malfoy an earful. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing.”  
  
    “I can’t _believe_ Lockhart,” said Ron, adding bottles of pumpkin juice to the lot. “‘Not to worry,’” he said, pitching his voice in imitation of the professor. “‘The goopiness is only temporary, his leg will be set to rights within moments, it’ll be good as new.’ _Honestly_.”  
  
    “Callidora tore into him,” Hermione added, awfully admiring for someone who had just the other day been caught doodling Mrs. Lockhart on a scrap of parchment. “Will your leg be all right?”  
  
    Harry nodded. “By noon tomorrow, Madam Pomfrey said,” he told them, and watched Dudley, who til then had stood rigidly in the group, slowly deflate. The tension didn’t leave his cousin’s shoulders, however, though the blond did manage a weak grimace that was probably supposed to be a smile.  
  
    There was no time for anything else to be said, because Madam Pomfrey stormed over, shouting, “This boy needs rest, he’s thirty bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”  
  
    And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his leg but his own thoughts.  
  
  
    Hours later, Harry awoke suddenly, whimpering in pain. It felt as if huge splinters were being driven into his leg, possibly by someone using a hammer to do it, and he lay breathing heavily until the feeling lessened. Gradually, he became aware of a different feeling, and realized with not a little alarm that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark. “Get off!” he said, flailing his arm towards the culprit, only to freeze when a small, bony hand patted his cheek in what was probably supposed to be a soothing manner. “...Dobby?” he said slowly, because he suspected that any other house-elf might have already said something, and only one of them seemed to be fixated on his health.  
  
    The creature blinked his oddly luminous eyes, a tear running down his long nose, and whispered, “Harry Potter came back to school. Ah, sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Dobby warned Harry Potter, he did-”  
  
    Harry heaved himself up onto his elbows, sending the house-elf stumbling back on the chair he was stood on. “It was you who closed the barrier, wasn’t it?” he demanded, only just remembering in his eagerness for answers to keep his voice down. “Did you block the Floo too?”  
  
    Dobby’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Yes, sir, Dobby hid and watched and closed the gateway on Harry Potter, and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward-” he held up his long, bony hands, which to Harry’s relief, had at least been bandaged “-but Dobby didn’t touch the Floo, sir. Dobby thought Harry Potter was safe.”  
  
    During his speech, the house-elf had begun to rock back and forth, shaking his head, and now he quieted, muttering. Harry stared at him a long moment before an awful idea came to him. _No_ , he thought. _Couldn’t be_. “Was that Bludger yours too?” Harry asked slowly, and when the elf’s ears drooped guiltily, he felt his anger flare up. “You made that Bludger try to _kill me?_ ”  
  
    That snapped the house-elf out of his strange stupor, and Dobby waved his poor hands, horrified. “Never kill you sir, no, never that!” he cried, then hastily lowered his voice to its former squeaky whisper. “Dobby wants only to save Harry Potter!” He started to wring his hands, winced, and promptly stopped. “Better, sir,” Dobby said miserably, “to be sent home, hurt, than remain here! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!”  
  
    He hopped up onto the edge of the bed, startling Harry into awkwardly shuffling back on his arms, and stared earnestly with his glowing eyes. “Harry Potter means too much, sir, to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world-” Dobby stopped to pull himself together, then murmured, almost distantly, “Dobby remembers how it was, sir, when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his power. Ah, sir, we house-elves were treated worse than vermin! But Harry Potter survived, and it was like a new dawn, sir.” The elf sniffled, then dabbed at his eyes with the corner of his pillowcase.  
  
    Taken aback, Harry’s mouth worked silently for a long moment before he cleared his throat and said, a bit more gently, “Then please, Dobby, tell me what’s going on.”  
  
    “Dobby can’t, sir,” said the elf miserably. “If it was learned that Dobby spoke of the Chamber of Secrets opening again-” He stopped, horrified, and lunged for the water jug on the bedside table. Harry quickly grabbed him by the back of the pillow case and hauled him away from it.  
  
    “Wait, wait,” he said, carefully holding Dobby still. “The Chamber of Secrets is real? It has been opened before? Dobby, you’ve got to tell me what’s in there! Who opened it?” Dobby shook his head, clamping his mouth shut as more tears spilled down his scrunched-up face. “ _Please_ , Dobby! I’ve friends who are in danger!”  
  
    Giving a loud, emotional hiccup, Dobby moaned, half despairing, half joyous, “So noble, sir! But he must save himself, he must, Harry Potter must not-” He choked and went silent and still, bat ears trembling, eyes widening til they looked ready to pop. Harry started to ask what was wrong, then froze as well as he heard the footsteps in the passageway outside. “Dobby must go!” the elf breathed, and with a loud crack, he disappeared.  
  
    “No, wait-” Harry whispered belatedly, hands tightening on thin air, then cast about for his pillow, which had gotten dislodged in all his moving around. Ignoring his leg, which had started to twinge again, he shoved his pillow back into place and flopped down on it and drew his blanket up to his chin just as the door opened. Heart in his throat, Harry watched through his eyelashes as Dumbledore backed carefully into the room. He wore a long woolly dressing gown and a mismatched banana yellow nightcap, and was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, her hair down and rumpled with sleep, carrying the feet of the statue. Together, they carefully set it upon a bed, and straightened, mouths drawn tight with worry.  
  
    “Get Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said quietly, and with a terse nod, Professor McGonagall was away. Harry laid as still as he could, hardly daring to breathe, and opened his eyes a bit wider to watch as the headmaster bent over the statue, stroking his beard thoughtfully. A light flickered into existence, and a moment later, Madam Pomfrey swept into view tying her own dressing gown closed, a little glowing ball bobbing above her right shoulder.  
  
    “What happened?” she whispered urgently, bending over the statue herself. McGonagall stopped beside her, face eerily pale in the dim light.  
  
    “Minerva found him on the stairs,” Dumbledore murmured, and the woman in question let out a shaky breath.  
  
    “With a bunch of grapes beside him,” she said, sounding shaken. “I suspect he was trying to sneak up to visit Potter.”  
  
     _Me? But who..._ Harry slowly propped himself up and craned his head to get a better look. His stomach gave a violent lurch of horror as he realized that the statue was Colin Creevey, clutching his camera in front of him, and he had to fight not to make a noise. The adults muttered to each other, hard to hear over his own suddenly loud brain, but Harry forced himself to focus as Dumbledore worked the camera free of Colin’s grip as gently as he could. Everyone watched tensely as he opened the back, and Harry couldn’t help jumping in surprise when a jet of steam billowed out with an angry hiss, filling the air with the awful smell of burnt plastic.  
  
    “What does this mean, Albus?” asked Professor McGonagall over Madam Pomfrey’s quiet amazement. She seemed to have gotten herself together, and by the tone of her voice, she already had her suspicions.  
  
    With a great sigh, Dumbledore set the camera down. “It means,” he said in a soft, weary voice, “that despite my hopes, the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.”  
  
    Harry, laying back on his pillows with his heart hammering, distantly registered that Dumbledore didn’t sound as surprised as maybe he ought to.  
  
  
    The next day, when Harry was released, the curtains were drawn around Colin’s bed. Luckily, Madam Pomfrey left him to his own devices, heading back to her office almost as soon as she’d cleared him. Harry got dressed in the set of clothes that had been brought to him, then snuck over to Colin’s bed and slipped through the curtains. The first year looked horrible, wide eyed and scared and horribly still. Dobby’s insistence that Harry leave rang in his head, and he clenched his fists. “Don’t worry, Colin,” he whispered fiercely. “We’ll figure this out, and you’ll be back to normal by Christmas.”  
  
    He crept out of the Hospital Wing and resisted the urge to stomp - because while his leg _felt_ normal, he wasn’t taking any chances - and stopped by the Great Hall to see if anyone was there. It was still lunch time, and he quickly spotted his friends sitting at the Hufflepuff table. Harry made his way over to them, waving and smiling at the Gryffindor table when they cheered at him, then sat down next to Hermione. “Hey,” he said.  
  
    “Harry!” she said, startled, and put down her book to hug him. “How’s your leg?”  
  
    “Good as new,” Harry replied dryly, remembering Ron’s imitation of Lockhart, and the redhead grinned at him. “It’s a bit weird, but it feels fine. Anyway, listen,” he went on, all cheer fading, “Something awful’s happened.”  
  
    “What is it?” Neville asked, alarmed.  
  
    Harry glanced around, then whispered, “Colin’s been petrified. Oh,” he added belatedly, “and Dobby’s the one who fixed the Bludger.”


	10. Whispers

** CHAPTER TEN **

   “A dueling club?” Hannah read aloud, standing on her toes to stare over people’s heads. It was the third week of December, and she, Ron, and Neville had stumbled across a crowd around the bulletin board on their way to lunch.

   “First meeting tonight!” said Seamus, cheerfully budging up to let them have a better look. “Could come in handy later.”

   “What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster knows how to duel?” Ron asked sarcastically, even as he peered at the bulletin with interest.

  
   The others agreed that it was a good idea, but their enthusiasm lasted only until eight o’clock that night, when they’d elbowed their way into the crowded, noisy Great Hall and found Professor Lockhart standing on a stage. Harry and Ron exchanged horrified glances as Lockhart waved an arm for silence.

   “I can’t believe he didn’t get fired,” Hannah muttered darkly.

   “Gather round!” Lockhart called. “Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Yes? Excellent! Now, Professor Dumbledore has given me permission to start this little club to train you, just in case you ever find yourself in a dangerous situation! You will be taught to defend yourself just as I have done on many occasions - for full details, see my published work.” He beamed at all of them, his plum-colored velvet robes glistening in the light. “Allow me to introduce my assistant, Professor Snape!” Lockhart flung his cloak back dramatically, stepping aside as if to reveal Snape, who, in truth, had been standing beside him the entire time.

   “Wouldn’t it be great if they finished each other off?” Ron muttered to Harry, who grinned despite himself, and Hannah, who was in earshot, muffled a giggle.

   She looked back up at the stage as Lockhart finished talking, and watched as the professors faced each other and bowed. Or, at least, Lockhart did, with a great deal of fuss and wand-twirling - Snape, on the other hand, merely gave his head an annoyed jerk. They raised their wands before them like swords. Hannah’s eyes widened at the sight, and glazed over a little as she imagined herself on that stage, dressed in actual, shining armor with filigree flowers, holding a brilliant sword, rescuing a damsel in distress from some Slytherin or other. _Maybe Flint_ , she thought absently, watching Lockhart chatter. _He’s huge and gross._

   Lockhart was blasted off his feet by a flash of scarlet light, startling her and several others out of their trances. He toppled off the stage, arms pinwheeling, and fell to the floor with a muffled grunt. The Slytherins - and, a little reluctantly, about half the Gryffindors - uttered a cheer.

   “Do you think he’s all right?” squeaked a Ravenclaw girl, standing on tiptoe and trying to peek over the crowd.

   “Who cares,” said Harry and Ron together, and Hermione rolled her eyes at them.

   “Just because you don’t like him,” she began, then trailed off when Lockhart got to his feet, hair rumpled, hat missing.

   “Well!” he said brightly, clambering gracelessly back onto the platform. “There you have it! That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I’ve lost my wand - ah, thank you, Miss Brown.” He straightened and ran his hands briskly over his hair, nudging it back into the semblance of perfection. “Splendid idea, Professor Snape, to show them that, though a bit obvious, if you don’t mind my saying so! Had I wished to stop you, it would have been only too easy, but I thought it better to let them see...” Lockhart paused, catching sight of the truly murderous expression on Snape’s face, then cleared his throat and slapped on another cheery smile, turning to face the students. “Right! Enough demonstrating. We’re going to come sort you into pairs to practice, now -”

   He hopped down again before Snape had time to do more than sneer, and immediately began to pair people together. Hannah, swept along with the sudden movement of people, found herself being spotted by Lockhart and steered towards the Slytherin group. “Here we are, Miss Abbott!” he said. “Why don’t you pair up with Mr. Malfoy here!” And, giving them both a pat on the shoulder, he disappeared again. Malfoy looked intensely uncomfortable, and Hannah felt a sudden rush of vicious glee.

   “ _This_ will be fun,” she said, grinning. She glanced across the hall and saw Hermione get paired with Millicent Bulstrode by Snape, who looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Millicent, large and square, looked indifferently down at Hermione, who smiled weakly. She darted a wide-eyed glance at Hannah, who shrugged and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up as Harry was paired off with Justin Finch-Fletchley.

   Finally, when everyone was in twos, Lockhart sprang back onto the stage and called out, “Face your partners, everyone, and bow!” Hannah turned to Malfoy and, looking him dead in the eye, cut a mocking, if wobbly, curtsey. He stonily inclined his head, looking as if this were the last place he wanted to be. “Wands at the ready!” They both drew, and held their wands like they’d seen the teachers do. “On three, cast only your charms to disarm your opponents, nothing else! One! Two!” At that moment, everyone realized he’d not actually taught them the charm. “ _Three!_ ”

   There was a great deal of confused shouting, but Hannah ignored it, dodging the Leg-Locker Curse Malfoy fired at her. Someone behind her cried out as it struck them, but she was already shouting, “Rictusempra!”

   Malfoy doubled over, wheezing as the Tickling Charm took effect, and Hannah laughed, pleased with her success, because she’d never tried it before. Before she could do anything else, however, the Slytherin’s wand came up, and he choked out, “Tarantallegra!”

   Hannah shrieked in alarm as her legs started moving about in a warped sort of dance. She desperately jabbed her wand at Malfoy, shouting the first spell that came to mind, which turned out to be the Levitation Charm, and Malfoy yelped as he was swept up off the floor. He swung about, trying to right himself, and Hannah, busy giggling at the sight, tripped over someone’s wand as it scudded along the ground. The fall knocked the breath out of her, and as she gasped, she became aware that Lockhart was shouting desperately.

   “Finite Incantatem!” Snape shouted, voice booming in the Hall, and there was an immediate halt to all spellcasting. Several people, Malfoy included, hit the floor with shouts of protest. Hannah, catching her breath, stared up at Snape through a haze of spell smoke. How in Merlin’s name had he cast it on _all_ of them?

   Lockhart tsked over them, moving among them and murmuring encouragement. Hannah got to her feet and tried to spot her friends. Hermione and Millicent, both dazed and stumbling, had been separated by Ron, who was looking a little green. Neville was laying on the floor face-down and groaning, and Harry had an odd purple growth on his face. “Dear me,” said Lockhart, and rounded up a few of the students - Harry included, to sit on the sidelines while their spells wore off. Another handful were sent up to the hospital wing for spells gone wrong, one of the prefects going with them.

   “I think I had better teach you how to block unfriendly spells!” Lockhart declared. “Let’s have a volunteer pair - ah!” He looked straight at Hannah and Malfoy, who were the only ones standing up still in their part of the room - everyone else had silently declared truce and sat down. “Miss Abbott, Mr. Malfoy, thank you! Come right up.” He patted the stage, and they reluctantly trudged over.

   “I’m not certain-” Snape began to murmur, but stopped abruptly, looking highly affronted, when Lockhart waved a hand in his face.

   “Nonsense, Professor Snape!” he said brightly. “They’ve done well so far!”

   Once Hannah and Malfoy had climbed onto the stage, the two teachers split off. To Hannah’s annoyance, she was stuck with Lockhart, who smiled down at her. “Now, when Draco points his wand at you, you do this,” he said, and sort of wiggled his wand about until it fell right out of his hand. Hannah gaped at him.

   Across the stage, Snape muttered something to Draco, who nodded, looking determined. _Right, on my own for this one_ , Hannah thought, eyeing him. Aloud, she said, “Got it, Professor Lockhart.”

   “Wonderful!” said Lockhart, who had by then retrieved his wand. He clapped her on the shoulder, then stepped away. “On my count!” he called as Snape, too, left the stage. “One - two - three - go!”

   “ _Lumos!_ ” Hannah shouted, and a bright light erupted in the middle of the stage, blocking Malfoy’s view. She ducked to the side in anticipation of Malfoy’s spell, which hit the stage behind her and left a ball of sparks in its wake. The lumos disappeared abruptly, and Hannah cast a Leg-Locker.

   Malfoy avoided it, just barely, casting as he moved. Hannah brought up her wand defensively and squeezed her eyes shut on reflex, though she wasn’t sure what good it would do, but at first, it seemed like nothing had happened. Then she heard the gasps, and opened her eyes just as the first screams started. There was a snake on the stage in front of her, rearing up to strike. The crowd scrambled back from the stage, and Hannah swallowed her own scream, not daring to move.

   “Don’t move, Abbott,” said Snape calmly, drawing his wand as if the snake weren’t his idea, but Lockhart leapt forward, brandishing his own wand.

   “Allow me!” he shouted. But before he could so much as raise his wand, there was an earsplitting _BANG_ , and the snake flew off the stage. It hit the floor and writhed a moment, enraged, before slithering towards Mandy Brocklehurst, hissing furiously and baring its fangs.

   It hadn’t quite reached her when Harry, face still bulging from the spell, darted in front of it and hissed back. The snake froze, and Hannah almost dropped her wand in shock. Hissing, the snake moved towards Mandy again, but Harry hissed louder, and the snake stopped, staring straight at the Ravenclaw, who started to take great, hiccuping breaths, tears welling in her eyes. Harry grinned at the snake, then up at Mandy, and did a double take when he saw her face.

   “Er, are you-” he started, but she shook her head, backing away from him. Two other Ravenclaws pulled her away to the safety of their ranks, glaring at Harry, who stared in confusion.

   Snape stepped forward and banished the snake with a brisk wave of his wand, looking at Harry with a calculating expression. For her part, Hannah glanced over at Malfoy, who looked unsettled. Seeing that no one was paying attention, Hannah whispered a spell the twins had taught her, and contrived to look innocent when brightly colored pimples sprouted on Malfoy’s forehead, spelling PRAT in wobbly cursive.

  
   “You’re a Parselmouth,” said Ron to Harry later, once they’d successfully herded him into an empty classroom, leaving Hannah - who was being scolded - behind out of neccessity. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

   “A what?” Harry asked, frowning.

   “A Parselmouth! You can talk to snakes,” Ron replied, perching on a desk.

   Harry blinked. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my uncle at the zoo once-” He darted a glance at Dudley, who looked as if a big question had been answered, then continued. “-it had been telling me how it’d never seen Brazil, so- but I mean, that was before I knew I was a wizard-”

   They all stared at him in varying flavors of morbid fascination. “A boa constrictor told you it’d never seen Brazil?” Ron asked faintly.

   “So? I bet loads of people here can do it,” said Harry defensively, but Neville shook his head.

   “No, it’s really rare,” he said, biting nervously on his thumbnail. “Oh, this is bad-”

   “How so?” asked Dudley. “I mean, I know it _sounded_ bad-”

   Bristling, Harry said, “What’s wrong with everyone? All I did was tell it to stop!”

   “It sounded like you were egging it on,” Ron told him. “We only heard you speaking snake language, remember? No wonder Mandy got upset - then again, she’s always crying about something...”

   Seeing that Harry was only getting more confused and agitated, Hermione said, “Harry, being able to talk to snakes is what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why Slytherin House’s symbol is a serpent.”

   “And those rumors had _just_ died down, too,” Dudley groaned, burying his face in his hands as his cousin’s mouth dropped open in horror.

   “But it’s- I’m not-” Harry stammered.

   “You don’t know,” Hermione said. “I mean, he lived thousands of years ago, you _could_ be related to him.”

   “Okay,” Dudley interrupted, “but wouldn’t the Chamber have opened last year if it was him? Can’t we point that out to anybody?”

   “Point what out?” Hannah asked, stumbling into the room. She looked cheerful, and Hermione shot her an angry look.

   “That the Chamber would’ve opened last year if Harry was the Heir,” she said, adding tersely, “not that it would be a _problem_ if _someone_ hadn’t spelled the snake into the crowd in the first place.”

   Hannah’s eyes went round in shock, and the boys stopped to watch them anxiously. “What?” she cried. “You think _I_ did that?”

   “I don’t see who else it could’ve been!” Hermione said, folding her arms. “No one hand their wands out but you and Malfoy, and _he’d_ just cast it!”

   “So? Like he couldn’t have cast something _else_?” Hannah demanded. “You would’ve _heard_ me, I can’t cast nonverbal spells-”

   “Lockhart was talking, maybe you said it quietly, like you did when you hexed Malfoy-”

   “Oh, is that what this is about? You’ve hexed him too!”

   “ _No_ , and that’s not the _point_!”

   The two girls stopped and glared at each other, and without another word, Hannah turned and flung open the door, shouting over her shoulder, “Fine! Have it _your_ way, Hermione Granger!”

 

  
   A light snow that began that night had become a full blizzard by morning, and Herbology was canceled so that Professor Sprout could fit the mandrakes with socks and scarves. She refused to entrust the task to anyone else, deftly fending off any offers of help from Lockhart, going so far as to lock herself in with a ward on the greenhouse door. By the time breakfast was over, Hannah and Hermione, who’d gotten into several arguments since the first, were no longer speaking to each other, and for that matter, also weren’t speaking with the boys, who honestly weren’t sure what to do about it.

   Because of this, the full effects of his slip-up went unnoticed by Harry until lunchtime. The girls were sitting by themselves, so Ron was camped out with Ginny, writing letters to their parents. Dudley was off on some errand or other, and Neville was dozing off between each bite of sandwich. For his part, Harry was slogging fruitlessly through his Magical Theory textbook when the feeling of eyes boring into him finally sank in, giving him goosebumps. He looked up in time to see Justin Finch-Fletchley turn quickly away. It wasn’t just him, though; everywhere Harry looked, people turned their gaze away, even at his own table, and he gradually became aware of the whispers.

   “-the heir.”

   “Can’t believe it, Harry Potter-”

   “-saw that snake-”

   “Always knew-”

   “What a freak.”

   Harry slammed his book shut, startling Neville awake, then shouldered his bag and stomped out of the hall. He had no particular destination in mind, but, quickly realizing how little he wanted to be around people, chose to take a shortcut past Filch’s office. As he stepped into the corridor, Harry reflexively checked for Mrs. Norris, only to remember she was still petrified somewhere. Sheepishness overtaking the simmering frustration in his gut, he crept down the hall, slowing as he approached the door of the dreaded office, which he now saw was cracked open. There was an old, distinctly unflattering photo of Mrs. Norris tacked to it that purred warningly as he drew near.

   “ _GET OUT_!” Filch roared from inside. Harry jumped and leapt back, but the door didn’t budge, and to his shock, he heard a familiar voice.

   “Please just consider it, Mr. Filch.” At the sound of footsteps, Harry flattened himself against the wall just as the door opened and Dudley stepped out, inexplicably carrying a tea set. The blond nudged the door shut with his toe, then froze as he spotted his cousin. The Gryffindor opened his mouth, but Dudley frantically shook his head, then nodded down the hall.

   They quietly trotted away, and once they were safely out of range, Harry asked, whispering despite himself, “What was that about?”

   Dudley murmured, from the corner of his mouth, “I offered to teach him magic if he’d keep an eye out for anything weird.”

   This was so out of left field that they’d reached the kitchens before Harry was done processing it. He waited impatiently outside as Dudley returned the tea set, and when he’d come out, said, “ _Why_?”

   After taking a moment to think about it, Dudley replied, “I’m practically a squib myself, y’know? And I look at people like Filch, and mom, who grew up with magic they can’t ever touch.” He stopped, swallowed hard, and said so quietly Harry had to lean in to hear, “What if we could open our doors to squib and Muggle students? What if there are ways we can - can store magic for them, like batteries, in case they need it?”

   Harry gaped at him. “I- how would we do that?”

   His cousin hesitated. “I don’t know, but I think Filch might be a good starting point.”

 

  
   Ron was in the Charms corridor, and it was past curfew. “Why does this always happen?” he groused under his breath, not even sure what he was complaining about, then set off, socked feet rasping quietly on the cold floor. The air grew chillier as he walked, sinking through his thin pyjamas and into his bones. This, coupled with the fact that the corridor was rapidly getting darker, made him hurry. He needed to get to bed, and fast.

   A shrill scream made him stop dead, and something huge hurtled at him from the dark. He yelped and ducked, then turned to look, putting his hands on the railing as he stared into the dark stairwell that had come out of nowhere. Something a few flights down was slithering about, and another scream ripped through the air. Ron drew his wand, then ran down the stairs, making it two flights before he found himself in a new corridor altogether. It was ice cold, with pale marble walls that dripped water, and there was an eerie, unnatural light. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and though he couldn’t see it, he felt the rold beyond the corridor drop suddenly away into dark nothingness.

   Before he could open his mouth to question it, a third scream ripped through the air, and Ron was compelled to lurch forward. The soles of his shoes slapped the floor, echoing loudly as he ran. His grip on his wand tensed, but he still almost dropped it when Hannah rushed him from the darkness. Her grimy face was pale and drawn, eyes wide with terror, and her damp hair streamed out behind her.

   “Hey!” he said, trying to grab her, but she moved past as if he wasn’t there, and he watched, brow furrowed in puzzlement. A noise drew his attention back the way she’d come, and Ron almost had a heart attack when he saw two dully gleaming eyes. A faint hissing reached his ears about the same time as a huge, terrifying head came into the light.

   It was like no snake he’d ever seen, but it didn’t seem to notice him. Instead, it slithered past him, scales rasping on the stone. Ron shouted a warning, turning to run after Hannah, and slipped in a puddle. He fell hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and found himself very suddenly awake on the dorm floor.

   He stared wordlessly at the ceiling, jaw agape, breathing hard, before he got it together enough to disentangle himself. By the time he was up and had everything sorted, the dream was gone, leaving nothing more than an uneasy impression in his brain. Ron tried for a few moments to remember what he’d seen, then gave up and went back to bed, more relieved than not.

 

  
   “Hermione.”

   “Hannah.”

   The two girls stood off to the side of the corridor leading into the Great Hall, arms folded as they stared each other down. It wasn’t quite time for breakfast, so the castle was silent but for the distant murmuring of paintings or creaking of stairs. They’d run into each other accidentally, and instead of immediately storming away, had engaged in a staring contest.

   Finally, Hannah broke, stomping her foot. “I can’t take this!” she cried, tears springing into her eyes. Hermione drew back a little, startled. “I _hate_ fighting with you!” She reached out and took the Gryffindor’s shoulders, lip quivering. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione! I got really carried away, and I got upset ‘cos you didn’t believe me about the snake-”

   Hermione looked away, heat rising in her cheeks. “No, look, I’m sorry, I know that wasn’t you-” They stood awkwardly for a moment longer before she threw her arms around Hannah in a tight hug.

v“Everything all right?” Dudley asked, appearing as if from nowhere, and the girls jumped in surprise. He looked tired to Hermione, hair mussed, but nowhere near as bad as he had during their first year, so she decided he’d only been up late again.

   “Oh! Um, y-yeah, I think- yeah,” Hannah said, glancing at Hermione for confirmation. She wiped her face on her sleeve and sniffed loudly. “G-good morning.”

   “’Morning,” the other ‘puff replied, smiling, and patted their shoulders. “Breakfast? Or would you like a minute?”

   Hermione patted the bow that held her thick hair back, saying, “No, I think we’re okay,” and she took Hannah’s other hand before leading her into the hall. “So,” she continued in a low voice, “I know it’s only been a couple days, but has anyone found something on the Chamber?” She cast a disapproving look Dudley’s way, which he returned with sleepy puzzlement. “I hope your late night was spent on _that_ , Mr. Dursley.”

   Dudley grimaced. “Maybe?” he said. “Not really? I mean, nothing's come of my research anyway. I keep wondering if it’s some kind of, I don’t know, curse maybe?”

   “It could be,” Hermione said, humming skeptically. “It would have to be really, really advanced to last this long.”

   Hannah cleared her throat, then said, “Hasn’t it opened before? Why don’t we write to the Ministry? Say we’re- we’re doing a history project.”

   They all looked at each other, weighing the odds. “Well,” Dudley said finally, “It’s worth a shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry it's been so long! Thank you so much for sticking with me regardless. <3 Work's been eating my time and motivation, but I've gotten into a better situation, so hopefully that'll change!


	11. Frustrations

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

  
  
  
    Hannah eased into a chair on the edge of the common room, glad for once that it was empty. Since it had been her idea, she’d taken on the responsibility of writing to the Ministry, and she figured she’d better do it before she chickened out. Chewing her lip nervously, Hannah dug out the list of Ministry personnel Hermione had found for her, then reached back into her bag for parchment. Something brushed against her fingers, and her teeth drew blood as she fought not to make a noise. _Not a spider, not a spider_ , she chanted fervently, and pulled the parchment free. It was clean, but she still gave it a quick shake before dropping it on the desk. She hesitated to reach back in her bag, but she still needed quill and ink, so she took a deep breath and stuck her hand in. She grabbed the quill, then searched around for her ink, and felt something nudge it into her hand. This time, a tiny squeak did escape, but Hannah quickly cut it off, sitting bolt upright and fumbling the bottle. Once it and the quill were safely set down, she scrubbed her hands on the front of her robes, skin crawling.  
  
 _Okay, get it together,_ she thought, cringing. _Think Ministry thoughts and try to write like Hermione. Don’t think about the spiders in your bag. You can do this._  
  
    With that, she bent her head to her task, pen scribbling a little desperately as she tried to drown out the faint rustling in her bag.  
  
  
    Across the castle, Harry, one hand tangled in his messy hair, muttered under his breath, “This doesn’t make any sense.” Ron grunted quietly in agreement, or maybe in his sleep, because his eyes were closed when Harry looked up from his Magical Theory assignment. Sighing, he lowered his quill and got up to wander through the stacks, looking for nothing in particular. It was hard enough to focus on homework without worrying about everything else; even though last year had been completely weird, and Snape had been on his case nonstop, it had been a while since Harry had felt so terrible. Given the givens, it wasn’t like he could exactly disappear anymore, either.  His feet took him to the section on dragons, and he was browsing absently, thinking about Norbert, when he heard it.  
  
    “-still can’t believe it-”  
  
    “Poor Mandy was scared to leave the dorm all week-”  
  
    “Are you sure it’s him?”  
  
    “’Course. Everyone knows Parselmouth’s the sign of a Dark wizard-”  
  
    The whispers grew closer, and Harry grabbed a book at random, opened it to the middle, and tried to appear very interested in the mating cycle of the Burgundian Ridgehorn. From the corner of his eye, he watched as two Hufflepuffs and three Ravenclaws rounded the corner, led by Ernie Macmillan.  
  
    “-knows how he survived _anyway_ ,” Ernie was whispering. “He was just a baby, and that’s probably why You-Know-Who tried to kill him in the first place. Competition. Bet he has other powers-”  
  
    “Shh!” one of the Ravenclaws hissed, face pale with fear as he swatted Ernie’s shoulder. The others all froze as soon as they spotted him, and Harry turned the page, trying to look inconspicuous. Considering the death grip he had on the book, it probably wasn’t very convincing.  
  
    “Potter,” Ernie managed after a tense moment, swallowing hard as he said it.  
  
    Harry looked up. “Oh, hey,” he said, trying to sound calm. He snapped the book closed with a little more force than he’d meant to, and watched half the group flinch. He turned to the first Ravenclaw, who he recognized, finally, as Michael Corner. “I’ve actually been looking for Mandy.”  
  
    He hadn’t thought it possible, but Michael actually got paler. “Wh-what do you want with her?” he asked, voice shaking.  
  
    “I wanted to tell her what really happened with the snake,” Harry explained, keeping his voice level. “I realize it looked bad, but-”  
  
    “We were all there,” Ernie interrupted, despite his own nerves. “We _know_ what happened.”  
  
    Harry looked at him, trying to stomp down his anger, and said, “Then you know the snake backed off after I talked to it.”  
  
    “All _I_ saw,” said Ernie, trembling, “was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake towards her.”  
  
    “I didn’t chase it!” Harry said, voice raising a little in frustration, and he took a deep breath. “It didn’t even touch her, why would I want to do anything to Mandy-”  
  
    “Both her parents are half-blood,” squeaked another Ravenclaw, Lisa Turpin, and he recognized her as the one who’d talked about Mandy refusing to leave the dorm. “What other reason does someone like you _need_?”  
  
    “And in case you’re getting ideas,” Ernie added, elbowing back in, “me and Entwhistle have pure blood. These guys are under our protection. And Mandy.”  
  
    Harry stared in open-mouthed astonishment. “My _cousin_ and one of my _best friends_ are both Muggleborn,” he said, going up a few octaves incredulously. “Hannah is _half_. I don’t care what kind of blood anyone’s got! What is _wrong_ with you?” He shoved the book back onto the shelf, making it growl warningly. He turned and stomped back to his table, then shoved his stuff into his bag. Ron sat up with a snort.  
  
    “Wassup?” Ron asked blearily.  
  
    “I’m going for a walk,” Harry replied tightly, and stormed out of the library, ignoring Madam Pince’s evil eye. He had no particular destination in mind, but he tried to keep to the side corridors, going out of his way to avoid other students, and for the first time in quite a while, he got lost. This didn’t register, really, until someone called his name and he looked up and had no idea where he was.  
  
    It was a light, airy hallway, which puzzled him until he took note of the floor-to-ceiling windows. They sparkled as if they’d been recently cleaned, but had a faint green tinge. The hall didn’t seem to lead anywhere, but a door was open halfway down, and Callidora was standing there with her arms folded. She didn’t look mad, though her eyes were hidden behind her glasses. “Are you okay?” she asked.  
  
    “Not really,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “I mean, no, I’m fine, it’s just-”  
  
    “Rumors?”  
  
    He hesitated, then nodded, and she returned the gesture before beckoning him forward. “Come into my office, have a snack,” she suggested. It sounded better than wandering aimlessly until everyone forgot he existed, so Harry followed her in, dragging his feet. Once inside, however, he looked around curiously.  
  
    The office had a fantastically tall ceiling, and had the same charm as that of the Great Hall. Currently, there was a light snowfall, and it stopped about nine feet above their heads, with the occasional fat snowflake making a gentle _plink_ as if it were landing on glass. There were two other tall, green-tinted windows behind a sturdy, practical oak desk, and opposite a wall of heavily burdened book shelves was a wall of Quidditch paraphernalia. It was mostly articles and photos, but there was also a collectible sand-colored robe with a griffon and the name Nejem on it in royal blue with an old Quaffle hung beside it. Harry made a beeline for it, unable to help himself. “Did you play?” he asked curiously, reaching up to touch the frame of a photo showing a younger Callidora and another girl laughing on a Quidditch pitch.  
  
    “No,” Callidora said from behind him, “but I’ve always loved the sport.” When he turned, she was pulling a box of cookies from her desk, and there was already a pot of tea brewing. Harry trotted over, stepping onto the soft, moss-like area rug that covered most of the floor, and set his bag down beside the desk. On its well-worn surface, a number of interesting trinkets were sitting, some of them gently whirring. Seeing his interest, she said, “Some of them are for measuring magic. Most of them are just because they’re fun to look at.” She reached out and gently flipped a switch on one with her finger, and it started blowing a steady stream of tiny, color-changing bubbles. Harry grinned, then sat down in a squishy armchair and accepted a cookie when she offered.  
  
    They chewed in companionable silence for a moment before Callidora said, “So, would you rather talk about your situation or play cards for a bit?”  
  
    “Cards,” Harry said immediately, relieved. “Definitely cards.” She shot him a knowing smile, then pulled a pack out of her desk. To his surprise, the cards pulled from their battered pack weren’t magical - or at least, not originally.  
  
    Catching his curious look, Callidora smiled minutely and shuffled the cards. “I prefer them to Wizarding packs,” she said. “They don’t give me as much cheek.” She dealt the cards. “Rummy?”  
  
    Harry nodded, and gathered up his cards when she was done. “A-are you Muggleborn?”  
  
    “Hm?” A raised eyebrow. Harry hastened to explain himself.  
  
    “I just mean,” he said nervously, “most wizards seem- seem not to like Muggle things? Unless you’re Mr. Weasley, anyway. Or Muggleborn.”  
  
    “Ah.” Callidora took a moment to rearrange her cards, then said, “That is a very good point. In fact, I am half. My mother was a Muggle- it quite scandalized my grandmother.”  
  
    “Why?”  
  
    She shot him an amused look, then stared pointedly at his cards until, embarrassed, he got the hint and laid down three. A moment later, Callidora added a card to his sequence, then said, dry as a desert, “Well, she fancied herself to be one of Callidora Black’s greatest friends, despite being a Muggleborn herself. The Blacks are as Pure as they come, and are very stuck-up about it, as you might’ve noticed in your young Draco. His mother is a Black.”  
  
    This was an awful lot to take in at once, so Harry only hummed and wondered if he ought to learn more about this family. They fell into silence as he digested it, and it wasn’t until they’d played a few more hands that Callidora mentioned, “I’ve noticed you’ve been a little frustrated in my classes. Is there any way I can help?”  
  
    Between all the Chamber of Secrets drama and the ongoing spectacle of Lockhart’s ill-fated romance, Harry had no idea when she’d even had the time to notice. He opened his mouth to say that he was fine, but he caught her mild and knowing look, and mumbled instead, “I just... don’t get it.”  
  
    “Mmm, I see,” she said, and straightened one of her cards. “Let’s try this. Is it too boring?”  
  
    “No- well. A little, sometimes.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry regretted them, but Callidora only nodded.  
  
    “Alright. That’s one thing we can work on.” A flash of a smile. “Do I lose you when I lecture? As in speak too fast, or use too many weird words?”  
  
    Harry thought about it, then said, slowly, “You can be kind of fast.”  
  
    With another nod, Callidora set her cards aside for a moment in order to take out a piece of parchment and a brilliant blue quill with a magenta nib. “To record ideas,” she explained, laying the parchment flat on the desk and smoothing it before balancing the quill on it, point-down. It held when she let go. “Too boring, and I speak too quickly,” she said, and the quill wrote those exact words down. “The downside, of course,” Callidora added to Harry, “is that it will record every word we say. But a See-All Scrivener is better than a Quick-Quotes anyway, in my opinion.” She picked her cards up.  
  
    “What’s a Quick-Quotes?” Harry asked, watching with interest as the See-All copied their words down flawlessly.  
  
    “It’s a little like a See-All, but it makes up stories around what the person says,” Callidora said with a derisive snort. “Ridiculous. So, let’s see.” She went quiet a long moment, one of those odd pauses that came over her from time to time, then said, “Okay. Boring, too fast. What else?”  
  
    Harry gave an embarrassed little half-shrug. “I dunno,” he mumbled, laying down a card. “It’s just... hard.”  
  
    Callidora hummed, then did the same. “I think I can work with that.”  
  
    They played a couple of games, Harry struggling to figure out if she was letting him win or was complete rubbish at cards, then had a quiet snack before Callidora coaxed him into bringing out his homework. She went over it with him step by step, taking note of areas he had no problem with and helping him work out something that didn’t make sense to him. Always, always she let him figure things out for himself, only giving him helpful pointers or insisting on a quick break, and by the time dinner rolled around he was almost done.  
  
    “Let’s stop for now,” Callidora said at last. “It’s nearly dinner time - why don’t you go relax with your friends until then? Take some of the stress off.” She smiled, and Harry slowly smiled back.  
  
    “Thanks, Professor,” he said, gathering his things and putting them back in his bag. He drained his teacup, then got up. “Um, bye,” he said, a little awkwardly.  
  
    “See you at dinner, Mr. Potter,” she said, mock solemnly, and he grinned before leaving her office.  
  
    Deciding to drop his bag off at his dorm first, Harry set about trying to find his way back. Several wrong turns and a very chatty stairwell later, he found himself back in front of the library. A quick peek inside showed no sign of Ron, so he hurried past, not wanting to run into anyone else.  
  
    Unfortunately, he did anyway.  
  
    It was very nearly a literal collision, in fact, and never before Harry been so glad of his quick reflexes. There, in the corridor in front of him, were Nearly Headless Nick and a tiny Ravenclaw. Both of them were petrified.  
  
    “Bloody-” Harry swore, jerking back in alarm. His bag slipped off his shoulder, and he grabbed it before it hit the floor. He’d almost walked right into Nick. Before he could do more than stare in horror, a familiar voice broke the silence.  
  
    “I told you!”  
  
    Harry turned around, trying not to groan. Ernie and his friends looked like they’d just come out of the library and the sound of footsteps clued him in to the fact that Ernie’s shouting had drawn attention.  
  
    “I’m not-” he started, swallowing hard. “I didn’t-”  
  
    “Thought it was funny when I saw you running past,” Ernie said, puffed up with his own righteousness. Harry was so thrown by this - why run towards the crime scene? - that he could only stare.  
  
    Salvation arrived in the form of an ashen-faced Professor McGonagall, who immediately checked the victims over. Satisfied that they were alive, she conjured two stretchers to whisk them away to the hospital wing. By then, quite a crowd had gathered. McGonagall shooed them to the main hall with platitudes Harry didn’t manage to comprehend through his shock. When she touched his shoulder, Harry jumped, and was surprised to see that they were alone. She peered over her glasses at him, brow furrowed but concerned rather than angry.  
  
    “Come along, Mr. Potter,” she said, gently, and steered him away.  
  
  
    For the second time in one day, Harry found himself inside a teacher’s office. This time, it was Dumbledore’s, and every passing minute felt like it was being squeezed through a tube about fifty years long. He set his bag down by the door, then anxiously picked it back up only to set it back down again in a more out-of-the-way spot. As he fidgeted and tried to calm himself, a familiar hat caught Harry’s eye.  
  
    After engaging the Sorting Hat in a very long staring contest in which the hat took no part at all, Harry picked his way across the room to its shelf. Carefully, he lifted the hat and set it on his head. It slipped down just the same as it had the year before, which was oddly comforting, and then it said, “Mr. Potter.”  
  
    “Hi,” said Harry.  
  
    “You’re worried I put you in the wrong House,” the hat observed.  
  
    “Er- yes.”  
  
    The Sorting Hat gave a funny little chuckle that sounded almost fond. Harry wondered if hats could be fond, though he was careful not to wonder it too loudly. “It’s true you would have done well in Slytherin. Very well indeed,” it said, and Harry’s heart sank. Before he could drum up a response, however, it continued, “But you will do better in Gryffindor. And Harry?”  
  
    “Yes?”  
  
    “It isn’t your House that defines you. It’s you that defines your House.”  
  
    “Wh-? What does that even-?” A sudden feeble screech caused Harry to nearly jump right out of his skin, and he pushed up the brim of the hat in time to see an ancient, sickly bird he hadn’t seen before burst into flames. With a yelp of alarm, Harry yanked the hat off and put it back on the shelf before hurrying over, but by the time he arrived, the bird was already a pile of ash on the floor. “Oh, no-”  
  
    “Are you alright, Harry?”  
  
    Harry jumped again, and he spun to face Dumbledore, wide-eyed. “Professor!” he croaked. “It- I- I don’t know what happened! It just - was on fire!”  
  
    “About time,” said Dumbledore with what the panicked Harry thought was rather too much cheer. “He’s been looking dreadful for weeks. I’ve been telling him to get a move on.” He smiled warmly, then stepped forward and slowly knelt in front of the ash pile, putting out a hand. As Harry watched in astonishment, a tiny, ugly baby bird poked its head out, and Dumbledore scooped it up. He deposited the bird on a part of the perch that was shaped like a tiny nest. “Fawkes is a phoenix. They burst into flame when it’s time for them to die and be reborn.” Once Fawkes was secure, he went behind his desk and settled comfortably in his chair. “It is quite a shame you had to see him on Burning Day, he’s usually very fine to look at. Red and gold plumage,” Dumbledore added with a wistful sigh. “Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. Now, then-”  
  
    Reality returned all at once, and Harry blurted, “Professor, I didn’t do it, I swear-”  
  
    The headmaster gently held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t think it was you, Harry,” he said. He paused to let this sink in.  
  
    After a long moment, Harry said weakly, “You don’t?”  
  
    “No. Tea?” Dumbledore folded his hands neatly on the desk and twinkled, the very picture of grandfatherly concern, though this was completely lost on Harry. A teapot emerged from the clutter of the room, as did cups, and tea began to prepare itself. Dumbledore was quiet as this process took place, and when the tea was done, plucked his cup out of the air and said, “I actually wanted to ask you something - have you anything you’d like to tell me? Any questions or worries?”  
  
    Harry frowned, puzzled by this turn events. What could he tell the Headmaster? Yes, sir, I’m hearing voices in the walls, all of the school thinks I’m the Heir, and- no. There was no way he was going to talk about anything. He shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been five million years. Life seems to get busier and busier every minute. <3 Hopefully the next chapter will be a little quicker than this was.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternately: Dudley Dursley and the Haunted Toilet
> 
> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your patience and for all the really sweet feedback. We're moving into the second year now, how exciting! As always, feel free to point out spelling mistakes, inconsistencies, and if you see a problem with the pacing, definitely let me know so I can either fluff or speed it up.
> 
> If you're wondering about the pairing - no, Gwenog Jones will not be personally making an appearance in the fic, unless I change my mind halfway through. Which, to be fair, would not be too strange. Hannah happened by accident, after all.
> 
> Also, hey! I have started drawing some things, because I'd like to eventually draw scenes from these fics or something, so go check them out [here](http://miliabyntite.tumblr.com/post/85950478326/).


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